


Love and Chaos

by Jenett



Category: Alternity - A Harry Potter Alternate Universe, Harry Potter Alternity - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Harry Potter - Alternity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 15:22:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4792550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenett/pseuds/Jenett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written as background fic for the <a href="http://hpalternity.com">Harry Potter Alternity project</a>.</p><p>This fic takes place over the course of Alternity's Year 5, as Aurora Sinistra and Rabastan Lestrange moved from engagement to wedding planning to wedding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Amor Chaos Comitatur

**Author's Note:**

> Those events which are mentioned as canon in Alternity itself may be taken as canon. Interactions between Aurora Sinistra and other characters mentioned were discussed (sometimes in detail, sometimes very briefly) with their players at the time, and details in these fics informed later decisions and interactions, but should not be taken as canon for the larger project unless they're referenced there.
> 
> As always, Siz's opinions, reactions, and such are hers, and should not be taken as canon for the universe either.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Raz proposes, and he and Rory aren't sure they will get permission to marry.

"He was being about as protective as a can-opener.”  
_Gaudy Night_ , Dorothy L. Sayers

* * *

**July 26th, 1995 : Spencer House**  
She wakes with a new sense of the chaos of the birth of stars that morning, waking with the light sparkling on her finger as she stretches out. He is up already, she can feel that immediately. But his side of the bed is still warm as she curls into it and lets her eyes drift closed again.

Remembering. 

Him quiet and oddly serious, drawing her up to the Painted Room to a couch overlooking the park below, everything green and vivid, the sunset painting everything in the room with golden light. Him taking her hands, everything else dropping away.

And his voice, rich and deep and just as glowing as the sun, “I love having you in my life, and I hope you feel the same about me. If you do, say yes, and marry me?” 

So very simple. So very complicated. 

Of course she said yes. As soon as she could breathe. 

His hands, sliding the ring onto her finger, perfectly sized and perfectly chosen - the interlocking arches of tiny diamonds, circling white and golden diamonds. Points of brilliance, to light the dark. 

Supper, afterwards, brought up on carts by the elves. Finger foods and tidbits, both of them delighting in the quiet time together. And then back down to bed and love and pleasure. 

She could not imagine a better way to be asked. 

There’s a long bath, and after, she falls back into the sheets again, taking a day - one of the very few so far in the six weeks so far of her summer - to just lounge and relax and not move if she needn’t. 

Once she writes the note to Narcissa, nervous and worried and tangled, she finds herself flicking back through her journal. focusing on those early conversations. 

Rereading. 

She works backward: the careful conversation before the Ball, his answer to Minerva, the nervousness he teased her about after that first tumultuous night. And before that, his comments about the World Cup, the joy and amusement of his half-drugged awakening from stasis. His apology over Acton. 

And it gets her thinking. 

There are so many ifs in their life. He was, late last night, honest with her. That their Lord might refuse permission. That he has before. They don’t talk too much about that, there’s nothing to say. They will be allowed, or they won’t be. There’s little the two of them can do to change things. 

Just be. Make the most of now. 

**August 9th, 1995 : New London**  
On the Thursday, she takes herself out to Leicester, working diligently through the aftermath of the Hambleton day. Through the unending “What does it mean that Ronald Weasley won on points” argument, about how no one expected Ron to win, that it should have been Harry, or at least Draco, and the less direct "And how do we avoid that in the future?". The analysis of other students. And then, more privately with Campanella, reviewing the report she’d sent to Auror Crouch and other parties, talking through what they might ask about Stint and the signs of his plans.

By half-three, when Campanella is gathering the last things for her meeting, the auror bends and gives her a quick and unexpected hug. “I know you’re for Court tomorrow.” she says, simply. “Good fortune.” 

She ducks her head, and manages a smile. But once Campanella leaves, she’s unable to keep control over her expression - or keep her temper with Dolores - and makes her hurried excuses. Twenty minutes after that, her mother is meeting her in one of the private rooms at the Archetype, and she begins bawling her eyes out. 

An hour later, she is more or less restored to mature restraint - or at least the facade of it - through the virtues of her mother’s shoulder, a pot of excellent hot chocolate (never mind that it’s August), ten minutes of very sensible advice, and one bit of teasing. 

It’s the last that lets her pull herself together, head for Spence, and take a long bath. To keep herself in control enough to make the most of what may be their last evening. Refusing to let anything spoil it, and especially not her fears. 

That night has more than an edge of intense desperation to it. From him, as well as from her. Both of them not talking about what tomorrow might bring, and both eager to pretend there are no fears, no doubts, no uncertainties. There is something so very human in it, and she loves him more at the end of it than she’d ever imagined. 

When she finally falls asleep, to the sound of his breath, she is content she could not have done better.

* * *

**August 10th, 1995 : Buckingham Palace**  
She wakes, Friday morning, with a hollow in her stomach. She goes off, quiet and thoughtful, to the appointment Narcissa arranged at Madame Ardenia’s (with one of the assistants, but still, far better work than she’d have managed on her own.)

She returns sleek and feeling like she’s wearing a kind of armour, before she slips into their rooms and rummages in the closet for the robes she’s wearing. Patterned, green shapes like edged leaves, growing from the hem and curving over a radiant blue background, like the clearest summer day. She slips the engagement ring onto her right hand, the pendant round her throat. 

And then she looks at the room. Her things, carefully and oh-so-casually piled in the corner, easy for her (or someone) to gather along with the robes in the closet, if needed. If it all goes wrong, as she's almost sure it will. Her books, corralled to the desk by the window, rather than strewn across the library. The telescope, propped in the corner, snug in its case. 

She sits at the desk, then, pausing to write one last message - as close to a prayer as she’s ever made, to the nameless powers that make the patterns of the universe sing true - quoting Marsilio Ficino to her journal. 

_Amor chaos comitatur, praecedit mundum … obscura illuminat, vivificat mortuos, format informia, perficit imperfect._

Love walks along with chaos, precedes the world, lights the dark, gives life to the dead, forms the formless, and perfects the imperfect. 

She hears a cough from the doorway. “Ready, love?” And when she turns, she sees him, leaning against the doorframe. She turns, and nods, setting the quill down, snapping her journal and wand into a slim bag to match her robes, and coming over to hold her hands out to him. He looks her up and down, blinking. 

“Tidy?” she asks, teasing gently. 

“Better than that.” he agrees. “You’re gorgeous, love.” 

She then pauses, more serious. “Sweetheart,” she says, uncertain for a moment. “Before we go.” 

He pauses, about to slide her arm into his for the walk to Buckingham. 

“Just - I want to say, be sure I’ve said it properly. I am so very glad for you, and for the time we’ve had. So far. For laughing with you, and joy with you, and all the things you’ve taught me.”

There’s a pause, before he responds, bending to kiss her gently. She lets her eyes close, and feels the touch of his hand on her cheek. “Likewise, love.”

It is enough. And so he holds out his arm to her, and she slides her arm in his, and they walk to Buckingham. Through the security, into the main Court. 

She’s not entirely sure what she expected. Whatever it was, she’s fairly sure it didn’t include the presence of Rodolphus, Lucius, Barty, and Minerva. She begins to wonder if they’ve gone about this entirely the wrong way, and if they should abandon all hope right now. 

There are several petitions before them, but they eventually get called up. And Raz, careful and polite, explains. That he would like permission to marry, to marry her. 

She can see glimpses of the reaction. Barty’s face going still, the mask of non-reaction. Rod’s startlement. Minerva’s flicker of something very complicated. But her focus is - as it must be - on the Lord Protector. 

“Indeed.” A long pause, in which all her fears multiply. Then, “There aren't many of mine who have done so much and asked for so little." Another slow pause, and a “Perhaps it is time for you to find other uses beyond your older ones. You have served me well, in the past, as my loyal soldier, but it has taken a toll.” 

She dares look up a bit at that, but doesn’t risk making any assumption. 

“You have my permission, yes.” 

She is stunned, her heart stopping for a moment, before she manages a “My Lord, thank you.” with all her being. Raz says something like the same, there’s another sentence or two she doesn’t quite catch, and then they are escorted off to the side, and the next petition is called. She looks sidelong, up at Raz, then carefully reaches to slip the ring from her right finger into his hand, to slide onto her left ring finger. They wait - she’s nearly trembling - through the rest of Court, through the formal and rather stilted comments from various people. 

And then they’re walking back, the two of them, both silent, hand in hand, but so very much not alone. Once they’re inside, he kisses her and then murmurs something about needing a moment, and she slips off to find parchment and quill, moving several times from bedroom to library and finally the Painted Room, where she settles in to write note after note. 

She begins with the journal: her parents, Poppy, Pomona. Then an owl to Gilly. And then Dai, the hardest she’s written. Once that’s gone, Nashira at her most careful, she settles into a long series of family notes. Nana. Aunt. Uncles. Cousins. She works until they’re a vast pile of envelopes in the basket she brought up.

After that, life goes on. A quiet morning, talking about what ifs they can face now. Time at Leicester. An evening out watching meteors when she returns. 

* * *

**August 19th, 1995: The Daily Prophet society notes section**  
Rabastan Basil Lestrange and Aurora Sterope Sinistra are pleased to announce their engagement. Professor Sinistra, second daughter and fourth child of Arca and Volans Sinistra, teaches Astronomy at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Professor Lestrange, younger son of the late Romulus and Delphinia Lestrange has long served as one of Our Lord’s Council as well as his more recent duties as Defence Professor at Hogwarts. A spring wedding is planned.


	2. Praecedit mundum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aurora Sinistra has initial interviews with three wedding planners.

“I imagine you come across a number of people who are disconcerted by the difference between what you do feel and what they fancy you ought to feel. It is fatal to pay the smallest attention to them.”   
_Gaudy Night_ : Dorothy L. Sayers

* * *

She’s heard her family say that it is in planning a wedding that you get a real sense of what someone will be like as a spouse. She’s not sure what she thinks about that. But if it is true, it is not holding any surprises. 

Raz is as gentle and sure and relaxed with her as ever. And they, at least, seem to be of one mind. Not too much fuss. A few of her family traditions, the ones that actually matter. They’ve talked her father around to the necessity of Raz paying (the numbers will allow nothing else), but he’s paying for her robes (and she admits those are likely to be quite the project.) 

But by early September, she’s come to agree with Narcissa that they need a planner. And a week or two later, she manages to round up appointments with the people who seem most plausible. Well, three of the four: Undauntra Robins, Briony Fleet, and Talitha Powell. 

Theodosia Moran sends back a polite owl regretting she’s unavailable for a few weeks and suggesting a few other names. Rory reads that - correctly - as “you’re still not good enough.” She doesn’t bother to bring it up with either Raz or Narcissa, and just sets up appointments with the other three. Two who’ve come recommended by various connections, and a third - Tallie Powell - that Chimera had recommended, as soon as he heard she was engaged.

* * *

**September 18th, 1995 : New London**  
“Oh, do come in.” The older woman - Undauntra Robins - is hearty, engaged, friendly, as she shows Rory into a room panelled in light coloured wood, flooded with sunshine. 

The hints of deep red and gold in the furnishings give a hint as to her house, but the luxury of the furnishings gives even more of a hint as to her priorities. There’s a massive ornate desk - her, firmly on one side of it, Rory gestured in a chair of supplication on the other side, lower and simpler and meeker. There’s a stack of bound albums on a shelf, labelled with names and dates, some of the foremost names of the Protectorate. 

Rory takes it all in, and then turns her attention to the woman, who might well have been clothed from a spread on ‘the mature professional witch’. Beautifully tailored robes, that flatter while enhancing clear authority. Hair done up in a way Rory knows relies on a dozen charms, wreathing her head. Everything just perfectly in place, nothing daring to escape.

“Just so delighted to meet you, Aurora - you don’t mind if we go right to first names? I’m Undauntra to just everyone, dear.” 

Rory nods, slowly, resigned to this display of intimacy. And really, whoever is planning this thing will be an intimate, sooner than later. 

“Now, let me take a look at you. Those gossip rags, they don’t give one a sense of the person, and you’ve been at so very few social events since you started keeping company. I suppose that’s understandable, up in Scotland most of the year. My cousin, Demelza, speaks well of you as a teacher, mind you, and even more so of your fiance.”   
Rory breathes. 

The woman finishes her inspection, and taps the leatherbound box on her desk, another flick sending picture after picture circling to display in the air. “Now, clearly you’re going to want to spare no effort.” she says. “I will plan out every detail of a wedding that will be the talk of the decade. Better than the Sandovals or the Bobolises, though they will give us some ideas, of course.” 

She considers, then taps one of the pictures lightly. “Now, the first thing is moving to early summer, once you both are done with your …” Her voice trails off, a little pained. “Teaching obligations. But summer is a much better time for what I have in mind.”

Rory opens her mouth, then closes it. Better to let this spin out. 

“Now, we’d have you collected from - your family do have a New London home, I’m sure? No? Just your sister? Well, there’s a hotel we could use for the night before, they’ve a lovely penthouse suite that would be stunning for you and your attendants. Bring you along in - oh, something like this.” And she taps a photograph of chariots drawn by winged horses, a bride bravely holding the rails. Everything covered in spinning sparkles and charms.

Rory blinks. “We were thinking indoors.” she says, mildly. “Security considerations.”   
“Hmm. Are you really sure? You’re not misinterpreting something?” 

Rory stays mild, but shakes her head. “Quite clear.” she says. “Indoor location, please.” 

“Oh, my dear. Locations, surely. It’s the way you show your social power, asking your guests to accommodate your every little whim. Three locations - the ceremony, the reception, the supper, and three dresses to go with it.”

She goes on like that, for some twenty minutes, laying out location, timing, breathtakingly extravagent flowers, food, with barely a place for Rory to add any comment. Six sketches of dresses, none of which Rory thinks would flatter. She feels more and more like some doll slotted into a set piece. 

“Now you just plan to leave every last little detail to me. You can’t be expected to have all the fashionable touches at your fingertips, I know.” She considers. “I understand you’ve a sizeable family? We’ll just have to find roles for them all. You’ll want at least a dozen bridesmaids, I’m sure.” 

Rory bites her lip for a moment, then restrains herself, saying mildly. “I - there’s some family traditions.” she ventures. 

“Oh, those. Now, I am very much in favour of the old traditions.” Undauntra says, cheerfully. “You just put me into touch with your - mother, dear, or grandmother? - and I’ll find a way to work them in. With just a tiny bit of modern updating. Now, for the actual binding ceremony, the done thing these days is cherubs, floating, holding your train just a little off the floor. I know someone who does an excellent line in charmed wood, they look almost entirely human. Are you certain you can’t convince your fiance to an outdoor wedding? The ascending chariot really would set the tone for the entire day.” 

Rory takes a careful breath. “That all sounds a little more … involved than I think we had in mind.”

“More involved? My dear, you are the closest thing to a princess the Protectorate is going to manage until the children of the Council begin to marry. You’re marrying a Hero of the Protectorate, one of Our Lord’s most loyal servants, and you’re appealing enough yourself. Everyone loves a story of a hard-working young woman being swept off her feet. We should definitely play up the fairy tale aspect, actually - I wonder, would glass slippers be too much?" 

Her voice trails off for a moment, before she comes back with "Of course it should be a massive event. Must be. With every single detail planned to demonstrate your fiance’s power and magic and resources.” 

Rory says very carefully. “I’d like to discuss that further with him. And with my parents. Do you have any materials I can share with them?”

“You’re one of those brides, I can see, who defers to other people’s choices. But truly dear, this is the most important day of your entire life, and the sooner you embrace that the better.” She does, however, hand over a portfolio of materials, and after a few brief pleasantries, Rory escapes into the street again, with a few minutes before she’s due to meet Temp for tea.

That, at least, is a relief, and five minutes into it, she’s got Temp laughing about the presumption and the pompousness. And then they settle into discussing Temp’s list of caterers that she should not touch, and why, and the stories from that occupy them until it’s time for the next round. And on the way to Briony Fleet, she manages to stop in to make an appointment with Young & Miller, the bridal salon, for next week. Two errands down.

* * *

The second office is in a sleek and shiny new building, constructed on the wreck of some part of Muggle London. It’s all curved edges and shiny wood and metal, and despite all the curves, it feels sterile and cold. Huge windows, no soft furnishings. 

Briony Fleet’s like that, too. Rory is kept waiting for four and a half minutes (the amount of time clearly calculated to make Briony appear in demand, without actually annoying anyone too much) before being gestured inside a gleaming office. There are broad smiles, and air kisses, and Rory finds herself in a chair designed for only one possible comfortable position, on the other side of a glass desk with nothing on it at all. 

She resists her urge to flee - empty desks are entirely unnatural, in her view of the world - and plants her feet, and smiles back. 

“Now, Aurora, I’m sure you don’t remember, but I was the year between your dear sister Diane and your brother Orion. She’s done so very well for herself, really, all things considering, but you, my dear, we had no idea when you were a schoolgirl that you’d marry so very well. And I am here to make sure the thing goes off in the very best way possible.”

This is not a propitious start. But Rory smiles, and blinks, and waits. 

“Now, I know just the right people to make sure your wedding is the very brightest event of the year. I know you must be ever so wanting to make your very perfect day truly spectacular. And I’ve the closest connections with the people who can make that happen. That’s my gift as a planner, you know, being able to call on family, and long-time friends, people who can be trusted to make everything fall into place.” 

Rory blinks. And lets Briony keep rolling on. 

“Now, you’re just at the very beginning, aren’t you? Despite your commitment to getting married in early April? My dear, we really don’t have any time to waste. Now the first thing, obviously, is a location. For most witches, that might be tricky, but I’m sure you could have nearly any site you wanted, for the asking, given exactly how well you’re marrying. Any of the places at all worth considering, anyway. One of the old palaces, perhaps, Hampton Court. A pity that Miss Sandoval chose the Protector's Collection, as it wouldn't do to repeat, and that would otherwise have been ideal." 

Rory just waits again. Though she's begun to take in the further details. A single row of precise fabric-bound binders on a shelf. Briony's crisp and aggressively simple robes, the kind that are charmed to fit the figure perfectly with a hundred tiny adjustments. The classic engagement and wedding band on her own hand, a large golden diamond on her other. A far cry from the beloved vintage ring on her own, which, yes, is flashy, but at least has personality. 

It's a moment before she realises Briony's paused, and she has to blink, and say, "I'm sorry, I lost that last part?" 

"Thinking about spaces, still, dear? I was just saying that I have just the perfect connections with Young & Miller for your wedding robes, and for your attendants. They really will do excellently, and my cousin - she's new there, but she really knows what she's doing - would be excellent to assist you. You haven't been yet?"

"I've an appointment set for next week. With my mother, my older sister - one of my attendants. And," She can't resist a delicate pause here. "Narcissa Malfoy." It's a pleasure to see the ripple of that name, and it derailing whatever Briony's next comment was going to be. 

"Oh, well." And then she gathers herself up. "I'm sure she'll have more than a few comments for you, dear. Moving right along. Caterers! I always work solely with Masterson and Douglas. they are one of the best in the business, really quality foods." 

And there's that moment, where Rory recognises the name. She says "My sister - she's working as a sous chef at the moment - worked there briefly." And her voice is mild in the way of someone who is not mentioning that that 'while' was three days, and that Temp left after egregious harassment and just before reporting three safety violations. The ones that really mattered, not the foolish ones. 

"Well, then, you must know that they're at the top of their field." 

Rory mmms, non-committally. "I'd like to look around. The food's important, both to my mother and my sister."

"Oh, my dear. You mustn't spend your wedding trying to make anyone happy but yourself. And I suppose your fiance. Of course, if you just put yourself into my hands, that will be the easiest thing ever." 

It goes on like that. Extravagant flower arrangements. Absurd charms in the reception space. A push to pick three perfectly coordinated colours right now, so they could take it into consideration when considering venues. Another push for a summer wedding. Pushing her to consider spreads with several of the magazines. 

Or if she won't consider summer, could they rush it and do a Dickensian Christmas wedding? A fairy tale theme? Orfeo and Heurodis, the valiant hero returning from a long time away, taking up his life again, a medieval court? It's when Briony offers games of prowess, re-enactments of Council victories, that Rory has to stop. 

"No, please. My fiance - I'm very proud of him, but he's - we'd rather something that focused on the future, and what we may build together. He's been very clear about that to me." 

"Goodness! You must have quite an effect on him." says Briony, before setting off into a discussion of suitable fairy tales. For the third time. And all the exotic and delicate charms they could use as a result. 

But it's when they get into a discussion of budget that Rory's ears really prick. She's asked, almost off-handedly, and as a way to get off an unbearable discussion of using falcons to fly through the ceremony (apparently, Briony's second cousin trains birds, including raptors). 

"Now, because I know my father will ask, how do you handle the budget matters?"

"Oh, dear. Is budget a concern? I suppose given your family, it must be." There's a brief flicker. "Well, you tell me what to work with, and then I will do what I can. For example, if you go with Young & Miller for your robes, and you get robes for at least four attendants there, you can get a discount. If you were willing to allow various parties to use you for advertising, there would be other discounts. At any rate, I make that all very simple for you, and you pay me directly, and I pay the other vendors. You needn't be troubled with budget details at all, if you'd like not. I can just arrange for them to show you things in the proper range." 

"Mmm." Rory says, carefully. "That does sound like it makes some things very easy for you." Easy to arrange inflated rates, purported discounts, and to send money to her - apparently many and varied - relatives. She then glances at the sun, does a quick calculation and says. "Oh, I am sorry. I've got one more appointment this afternoon, and I shouldn't take up any more of your time. Do you have materials I can take away?" 

She's shown out into the waiting room, where she gets handed a pre-prepared binder of materials. 

"Now, do floo as soon as you've made your decision. I'm sure I'll be hearing from you bright and early tomorrow morning! Always best to get a bright start on the day, and all." 

It is only with the greatest self-control that Rory makes it around the corner and to the building stairs before she shudders and leans against the wall for a moment, before she flees from the coldness of the building into the fall afternoon.

* * *

The third office is different. 

First, it's tucked into a second floor of an older building just off of Diagon Alley. Central, easy to get to, but by no means fancy or formal. The downstairs is a fabric shop, next door is a children's toy store (and Rory makes a note to stop in and look at their dolls, as Hyssop's nearly old enough for one.) 

There's a very simple waiting room - two chairs and an umbrella stand - but she's welcomed straightaway by a dark-haired young woman, about five or six years younger, but with Chimera's sharp features. 

"Do come in." is the immediate welcome. "And have a seat." 

She's gestured immediately into a comfortable easy chair by a fireplace - lit already against the fall chill - with a table nearby at a perfect height for notes. There's a pot of something warm on the low table, and a few biscuits. 

And more than that, there's books and papers. Bookshelves on the wall hold a variety of charm and potion references. A notepad on the sidetable by the other chair, but as she looks around, she sees a desk tucked into an alcove. It's tidy, mind you, but there's several different piles of materials waiting, and more than a handful of reference books in plain sight. 

She's suddenly hopeful. 

"Now." the young woman says. "I'm Talitha Powell, but almost everyone calls me Tallie. I understand from my cousin that you haven't generally preferred your first name, so what would you like me to call you?" 

And Rory has to stop, for a moment. "Actually, I'm using Aurora more than I used to." she admits. "Sinistra - well, that's going to get trickier in a few months. And nicknames - well, not until I know someone better." 

Tallie nods, a sudden flashing grin. "Tell me if you'd rather something else, then." she says. "Now, you mentioned you had other appointments with planners, but I go at things in a bit different order. First, I want to be clear about my background. If it won't suit, better we both know immediately, and not waste time. If you're intrigued, then I'd like to ask you some questions about what you're looking for. And only then do we get to the pretty pictures and the planning." 

This is a complete relief, and Rory nods. "Go on?" 

Tallie pours a pot of the tisane - and it is tisane. "Chimera." she adds. "Told me you prefer this to most tea." It's a fragrant mix of orange and spices. Not cheap, but not too dear, either, and yes, a favourite. When they both have cups in hand, Tallie begins, in what is clearly a carefully practiced explanation. 

"I know that I'm young." she says. "But I worked for Harrod's, in their event planning department mostly, from nearly the time I left school. During that time, I've assisted with about two dozen major weddings - by which I mean more than 200 attending, substantial catering and hall arrangements. And any number of other events, from balls to Miss Sandoval's debut - very much behind the scenes." she adds. 

"Six months ago," she continues. "I broke off from there to form my own business. I've handled a few smaller events in that time, but I'll be very honest, your wedding would be the largest event I've undertaken since leaving Harrod's." 

Rory considers this for a moment. "What makes you think you should?" she asks, finally. 

She watches Tallie pause - and loves the younger woman's care to think before she speaks. "Chimera told me to be honest with you: your choosing me would make my business secure, if I do well by you. But he also told me that you'd care about different things than most people. That you'd likely find it hard to find a planner who'd understand that. I want to be that to you. It's a fascinating challenge. And I think I can do far better for you than my competition." 

She then ticks off on her fingers. "To answer the major concerns: I do not have as many strong relationships with vendors as my competition, but in your case, I think that may be a virtue. I am actively looking to build those relationships, and having your wedding as the reason would open a number of doors, while at the same time, allow you to choose the vendors you truly wish to support."

Another finger. "I do not have a staff, but I do have people I can hire for day-of assistance. People I trust, have worked with before. We'll want at least one, and perhaps two or three, depending on location and other details." 

There's a careful pause. "It's possible that the Sandovals may disapprove. I left my immediate superiors on decent terms, but they expected me to stay longer than I did." Another breath and "Fourth, There are some vendors I will not work with, and I may not always be able to be specific as to why, as it would involve revealing confidences." 

She unfolds another finger. "What I bring: I am excellent with details. You are on something of a tight timeline, but precisely because I do not have other major events, I can devote the time to the legwork you don't want to do. And I do have a proposed plan for what to solve first." 

There's a tiny pause, and she then says. "And most important, I want to help you do what you want, with your wedding. Not force you into some grand design I've had stored up. That may mean finding different vendors than the ones everyone else uses. It may mean completely throwing out how things are usually done. I'm up for that. "

Rory finds herself nodding. "Nothing you've said so far is necessarily a problem for me. I'd like to at least talk through our appointment, and see where we're at after." 

Tallie lets out a tiny puff of relief, and then smiles again. "Right." she says. "In that case, let's move to my questions." She leans back, her notepad propped in her lap. "And if there's something you're not sure of, or that you'd rather not answer, just say so, please. This is for me to get a feel for what you want, not at all binding." 

Rory nods, and takes another sip of her tea. 

Tallie begins, "The most important thing - what do you actually care about? Besides being married to the man you love at the end of the day, that is."

And Rory has to laugh, because of course, it's the thing no one's asked her. She says as much, and continues. "I - looking right matters. Because it's a thing and people will comment. But the parts I really care about are Raz and I are comfortable. That there are stars in there somewhere, and that they're right, not silly. That the food is excellent, not standard tedious catering fare, and especially not transfigured." And she pauses, then dares "And that it smells right. That it's flowers and their scents, not perfumes, not … fake."

Tallie makes a few quick notes as she talks, and then says "And what don't you care about really?" 

Rory wiggles her hand. "All the frippery. Favours and linens and so on. I mean, I care that they look all right, and that no one's going to gossip about them in the bad ways. But I cannot imagine a topic more boring than whether this shade of linen matches that shade of carpet when seen in the shadow of the late afternoon. I'd like to keep the colours simple. Elegant, but simple, not fussy."

Tallie considers that. "Good general rule?" she asks.

And Rory considers. "Yes." she agrees, after a moment. "Raz and I - we're clear it's got to be a big thing, because of who he is. And I've got rather a lot of family, which doesn't help the numbers. But left to ourselves, we'd do something very small and simple and mostly about each other, shared with the people who actually care about us. So as much as we can manage that, the better I'd like." 

She then pauses, and says. "Look, there's also - there's security concerns." she says. "And those are complicated. I know some of the pieces, but Raz will have opinions too, and maybe other people. I suspect that'll affect venue - we really need to be indoors, I think. But also things like privacy clauses, and being able to do security checks in advance, and all sorts of other things. Controlled access." 

Tallie considers. "Right." she says. "I admit I haven't got a great deal of experience with all that, but I assume you - or your fiance - could put me in touch with someone who could get me up to speed on what I need to know?" 

Rory nods. 

Tallie considers. "Music? Photography? You want things that work, but you're open to ideas?" 

Rory nods again. 

"Right. What family traditions do we need to keep in mind? Yours, his, whatever you know." 

Rory contemplates. "We're still sorting out his." she says. "Mine - we're mostly farm and harvest types. There's things in the binding ceremony itself, and my mother's on that. But we also usually have a table set up where the family contributes tokens to stock the new couple's pantry until they can do so themselves. These days, that usually means tokens things like jam, not everything, but - it's tradition." 

They sort through various other details. The budget. (Raz paying for most of it, her not wanting to spend foolishly, even though Raz would be fine with it if it made her life easier.) The implications of the budget (Where they actually do need to spend apparently lavishly: venue, food, her robes and accessories, some parts of the decorations.) The number of people involved (Tabled, for later.) Number of attendants (Ditto on the tabling, but probably not many.) 

Why the spring. "Because I can't stand to wait." Rory admits finally. 

"There - the sooner we do it, the better. I'd push for winter, but I know there's no hope there, not with the limited time we can actually get free for appointments and such. And it'd just look too rushed, like we had a reason to do it quickly - and I do not need more people fussing about children. But at the same time, I don't want to wait for the end of June, and I especially don't want to be doing the final planning over OWLs and NEWTs and exams." 

Tallie nods. "Right." she says. "And actually, that's my final question - how involved do you want to be? You - well, Chimera suggested you'd have a hard time letting go of details, but I can do it any way you like. Some people like their planners presenting a couple of options, and choosing. Some want to be very specific about the criteria, and then let the planner do all the leg work on finding it."

Rory considers this for a long moment, then says, "I think I'd like you to lay out the options for me. And ideally, then I could check them out. My time's limited, but I can be in New London most Tuesday afternoons. Would that work?" 

Tallie nods, and they then settle into looking at some of the binders of photographs and sketches. No decisions, not even considering them, but a general sense of aesthetics. What she means by elegant, and simple, and not fussy. Which things horrify her. 

At the end, she says "I need to talk it all over with Raz, and he may have some additional questions. But - I do like what I heard, really." And she's seen out, with a substantial binder of materials, and a promise of more detailed plans if she wants.

* * *

She is absolutely sure, as soon as she's outside the door, who she wants to choose. And as she gathers herself for supper at the Archetype, and then to head back to Hogwarts, she's working on all the arguments for why. Not so much to convince Raz - she thinks that part will be easy enough. But for everyone else.


	3. Obscura illuminat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a demonstration duel, and some expected and unexpected reactions to that.

“You say you won’t interfere with another person’s soul, but you do — simply by existing.”   
_Gaudy Night_ : Dorothy L. Sayers

* * *

**October 6th, 1995**  
Down from the tower in the wee hours of Friday night, she draws on long force of habit to settle her: bath, a bottle of ale, much beloved reading. She has just enough left of her current comfort, _Gaudy Night_ , that her eyes are drifting closed at the final glorious “Placet”. 

Her dreams - much to her surprise - are not of duels and wands drawn, but far calmer. Her hands spread on Raz’s chest, as she lifts to her tiptoes, leaning up and into him. Of kisses and certainty.

* * *

She wakes at half-eleven the next morning. Just enough time to get herself properly awake and ready. She rummages in her rooms for a minute, taking the books out of the bag Ant - Toshenka - gave her last night, setting them carefully on her desk. And then she replaces those in her satchel with the first aid kit she’s carried since the YPL began, a few towels shrunken to tidy portability, and drink - a flask of her favourite tisane, and a bottle of Raz’s current favourite stout. 

Lunch itself is pleasant enough. For one thing, there’s no sign of Dolores. She chats amiably with Dominic, exchanges a few comments with Lucius and Rod, but mostly keeps quiet and attentive, watching. Her hand slides silently into Raz’s for a moment, and he squeezes it, his attention on his friends and his brother. And that’s just fine. As it should be.

When the Council Wizards peel away, after lunch, she kisses Raz’s cheek once, and then takes herself off to the grounds, to walk for half an hour in the mist along the lake, not-thinking. 

At half-one, she makes her way up to the large room they’ve chosen, and presents herself at the door. Toshenka waves her in, over any objection the others might have, but she keeps well out of the way, perching in a chair in the back row, her satchel tucked into the antechamber. She watches Toshenka paint the boundary on the floor, then as he sends the earliest arrivals out to hold the others for a few more minutes. 

At five to, she comes down, as the students are filtering in. She can see, in the patterns of conversation, Toshenka working towards his various goals: the Council Wizards are uniformly pleasant, amiable. Well, except for Barty, who looks as intense and fierce as ever. She listens to Raz and Toshenka taunt each other, and has to smile as their comments get ever more ridiculous.

It is then - a very brief pause - that Toshenka draws her aside. He asks, one last careful time, whether she wishes someone else to tend the boundary. If at this last moment, the memories are too strong and too harsh. 

And once more, she declines, insisting on knowledge over ignorance. She knows her nerves are showing - there’s a catch in her voice, and she feels her eyes slip down and away from his, before he takes her hands. Looking back up, he is watching her, intense and steady. “I will not hurt him. He will not hurt me. No matter what you see, remember that.”

She has to smile. And then lean, to kiss his cheek, with the simple and yet so complicated reply “I trust you. And I trust him.” There are a few more exchanges, then she makes him laugh. And turns to walk away, across the room, to speak to Raz. Not looking at Barty or at Lucius or Rod or their reactions.

A briefer pause, here, a kiss to Raz’s lips. She gets a smile, but his attention is clearly all on the coming fight, and she does not mind. As she climbs up to the back of the room, where she can carefully watch for students who need assistance, she shakes her head, dropping her own wand down into her hand quietly and casually.

* * *

The fight surprises her. She’s done enough Defence work with Raz that his intensity does not shock her by itself. But there is something in standing there, watching him, his entire being honed to a single goal, that stuns her. It’s like spinning in space, until she’s watching the other side of the moon turn towards her, into a blinding light and sharp relief. 

Known and yet entirely new. 

She hears Toshenka’s words, over and over, echoing in her mind, underscored by trust and knowledge. But she bites her lip as she watches, her body tensing as curse and hex are loosed and brushed aside, as they try this thing and that. She sees, in the patterns of the fight, some of the things they’d talked through, examples of spells they mentioned.

But a few minutes in, that falls away. All the analysis, all the conscious thought, all the intention. She’s watching, still, the patterns of the students, her eyes open and taking it in, but her attention is tied in the battle below her. Truly seeing Raz, now. 

It’s the heart-stilling knowledge that forces her to take a deep breath, and close her eyes for just a moment. Not of terror, as she’d assumed it might be. But of unfathomable awe. That he - this man, fierce and fast, broad-shouldered and strong - is this good at what he does. Not just good, but controlled, using what is needed, rather than the far simpler overpowering strength some might choose. Lethality - unabashed lethality, the flash of the claws and teeth and coiled power of his patronus. 

But there is also delight there, and certainty. And intertwined with it all, wisdom. 

And in that moment, she both falls in love with him all over again, and wants nothing more than to drag him somewhere private and show him how much. She takes a deep breath, and just watches Raz press his advantage slowly, making Toshenka work harder and harder to deflect. She listens to the gasps of the students, and the shivers as they see two professors go so fiercely. And she sees the other Council Members leaning and intense, and with that slight air of hunger. Half hears them quipping. 

She simply admires the power and skill. And the shining life within him - within them both - that she’d not truly realised before.

* * *

When it is over, and Toshenka yields, but does not yet rise, and they lower the warding, she comes down the side aisle, toward Raz’s side, silently handing him a towel, and then claiming a kiss. As she pulls back, there’s the murmur in his ear, that she’s well, and, oh, yes, looking to time alone tonight. 

But before she can consider expanding, she’s pulled aside to talk to a few of the watching students, and she hears him asked by one of his newts about this counter and that. And so it goes, through the formal question and answer, Toshenka still on the floor, to the less formal part, when the thing devolves into milling and conversation. She hands Raz the bottle, just before the little knot of Council Members depart to Alecto’s closet of dire objects, and then cheerfully gathers a good double handful of students up to her own office. 

She plies them with biscuits and tea and tisane, and eventually the chatter shifts from the fight to the skills, and then, eventually, over the course of an hour, to other topics. Mostly. By supper time, they are far more at ease, but her nerves are still jangling. With desire, not fear, she knows, but she suddenly cannot bear the thought of the noise and bustle at supper, and requests something simple from the house-elves once the last student is gone. When she’s done, she slips down to Raz’s rooms, and waits.

* * *

That evening, she knows that Pomona and Poppy want to hear from her. But once she and Raz are together, alone, there is no space in her cosmos for anything else. They fall into each other, fierce and eager, he still vibrating with his victory. There’s very little discussion, in the way of theirs they have of not talking that still conveys the essence, once she shyly admits how the fight took her. 

At the end, much later - and yes, after he replays the choices of the fight for her in fascinating detail - he falls asleep, curled around her, and she drifts off herself. Certain and sure and knowing - to the depths of her bones and the far reach of the stars - her place in his world. It is a deep comfort, really.

* * *

She wakes, in the true dark of the night. Raz is still curled around her, possessive and protective, and she wiggles a little to ease her shoulder and let her turn her head to watch the stars she set up before they slept. It’s the projection she made a year ago, the night he was gone for Barty’s not-funeral, and she is stunned and awed all over again at how much has changed in that time.

She lies there for what must be hours, by the movement of the stars projected above them. Holding the moment, not wanting to let it go. And then - almost against her will - thinking forward. This is a thing that brings him alive. But it is also a thing that may bring him death. And yet, she cannot hate the one for the other. What she saw, today, made her certain - she could no more turn him from his skill, even if she tried, than he could turn her from looking up at the night sky. 

And in that moment, come what may, she rests in the knowledge that she is one of the things he will fight that fiercely for. And that she will not only let him, but thank him with all her being for doing so. Whatever the consequences.


	4. Vivificat Mortuos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ireland is complicated.

“Not one man in ten thousand would say to a woman he loved, or to any woman, ‘Disagreement and danger will not turn you back, and God forbid they should.’ That was an admission of equality, and she had not expected it of him. If he conceived of marriage along those lines, then the whole problem would have to be reviewed in that new light; but that seemed scarcely possible. To take such a line and stick to it, he would have to be, not a man but a miracle.”   
_Gaudy Night_ : Dorothy L. Sayers

* * *

**November 2nd, 1995 : evening**  
There is an edge to the air, far beyond the coming chill of winter. Toshenka has had more than one unexpected firecall this week, and Raz has had warning from Barty that there may come a summons. And so she finds herself, that Friday night, curled up on the couch in Raz’s rooms until it’s time to teach, rather than lost in conversation with Tosha. Quiet talk of marking, of students, of the next day’s Quidditch match. 

She makes the most of it. As she does. And when she is done teaching - the night clearing more than she’d have guessed earlier - she comes silently back down to his rooms, not hers. She slides into bed, feels him curl around her in his sleep, and delights in his warmth.

* * *

**November 3rd, 1995 : 4am**  
It feels like she’s been asleep only minutes, when he’s moving. She opens her eyes, rolling onto her back, as she sees him set a lumos. “Love?”

“Been called. Must go.” He’s dressing, now, his movements quick and efficient, then he grabs his packed kit bag and says “One quick firecall.” 

She follows him out of bed, pulling a dressing gown around her against the chill, and stands in the doorway of the bedroom, out of line of sight of his fire. He opens the grate, calling through to the auror offices. A few comments, back and forth, before he finishes with a clipped “Later.” and turns back to her. “Arista Peel’ll be here for security for Harry - I know it’s awkward, but she’s good. Your Campanella’s coordinating much in New London.” 

She nods, silent. 

“Love you. Don’t worry.” He bends to kiss her, quickly, but his mind is already gone to his work. 

Those last seem the most pointless two words ever. But she simply replies with “Love you. Always.” 

And then he’s gone, slipping out of room and doorway, the sleekness and subtlety of his patronus in how he moves. She slips into bed again, lies back, staring at the ceiling above her. For hours. 

She lets her mind drift through worry and concern, and into something deeper and richer. She thinks back to conversations with Toshenka. About change. About power. About what drew them to His service. It is a distraction from wondering what is so massive, so dangerous, to call them out in the middle of the night. But for all that, her mind does not settle. She eventually dozes off, but as she expected, she half-wakes time and time again. 

That evening, she tries to occupy herself in her rooms, but they’re cavernously empty, and finally she goes to the top of the tower, to work against the fog and cloud. She stands there for hours, letting the chill November air numb her as the infinite points of light draw her in. 

There are pauses, to answer Harry, then Poppy. And then she goes up, again, losing herself in the dark, in the heart of the universe. By the time she comes in, it’s nearly four, and she falls into the daybed in her office, throwing a sheet and blankets from her cupboard haphazardly in the dark.

* * *

**November 4th, 1995**  
She wakes, achy and underslept, just before ten the next morning. And loses herself, then, in reading one of the books from Toshenka. She goes down for lunch, makes all the right noises - so she hopes. And not long after she comes back up, Harry appears, quiet and with a few homework books. 

It helps, not to be alone. Tea with Poppy helps too, losing themselves in deciphering a crabbed and faded hand and ancient infirmary records, but coming up with two hints that might well be pregnancies, to be cross-referenced against family records.  
That night, though, is harder and harder. 

She plans to sleep on the daybed again, stopping by her rooms only for a change of clothing and a few more books. And she dozes, on and off. In between, she walks up to the top of the tower, standing in the brisk air, looking at what she can, until she is numb and her mind is quieted by sheer effort of will, and she falls back under the blankets of the daybed, burrowing against the faint solid comfort of the pillows against the wall. 

**November 5th**  
The Fifth is horrible. She hears the first of the rumours in her 11am class with the fifth years, the Gryffindors and Ravenclaws. Finnigan is missing, and she wonders. 

And from there, it spirals tighter and tighter inside her, until she’s honed down to stillness and quiet and every word having more weight than she can bear. She worries, her mind turning from Raz to Tosha to Cedric to Harry to Pansy and Draco, to the school, over and over, like watching a knut flip in the bright air, over and over again in slow motion. She knows she should be more present, more helpful to students, and she just can’t quite make that happen. 

The rest of the day passes like that, too slowly, everything too bright and too loud and too sharp. She comes down for supper, she retreats again, and that evening, loses herself in the intricacies of theological philosophy. There are places her mind bounces off the text, so that she has to read it three times, five times, to begin to put the words in order.

But there is something in the struggle that helps. And much in the writing to Tosha that eases something for her. Not the endless gnawing worry, but at least the feeling of being disconnected entirely from the world. When she’s done, she sets her quill down, and goes back out on the tower

Her night class, the first years, are unsettled, quiet then chattering in waves. She’s as brisk and no-nonsense as the November wind. Not unpleasant, but leaving no room for conversation. 

When she sends them down to bed, she herself stays out on the tower until well near three, before she falls into the daybed, finally having found a place inside her that’s still and quiet and able to rest for a while. Relentless stubbornness, applied over and over until it finally sticks. 

**November 6th, 1995**  
She wakes at dawn, and draws herself down and out onto the grounds for a long walk, before nearly anyone else is moving. Something in the weak light and the moving air helps her, though she can feel the growing exhaustion settling over her. Cloak and blanket and enshrouding weight. She comes back, passing a few scattered students on their way to breakfast, but takes the less common routes back to her tower, for another hour curled up in the nest of the daybed. 

That morning goes slowly, every minute, wondering if she’d hear. What she’d hear if she did. 

And then, finally, the quiet ping of her journal at the tail end of her second class, as they’re filing out. It’s not Raz, but it’s nearly as good. Narcissa, with word that he’s fine. That Tosha’s fine. That others are fine. 

It is not enough to make her stop worrying (for there are the headaches, and all the things they don’t talk about, lurking in those shadows). But those can be managed, and the tight fear in her stomach lets up. 

She’s lightheaded for a minute, sitting heavily in her desk chair, writing a brief reply, before she pulls herself together and walks down, calm and serene as she can manage, to the Great Hall. Someone will ask her thoughts on Fudge’s speech; she had better have some. But she distracts herself, watching the students, watching the staff. 

At the end, she stops by Harry’s place, very briefly, bends. “Haven’t heard from Raz, have heard he’s all right.” 

Going forward 

Raz’s note, coming in just as she finishes class on Wednesday, makes her overjoyed. Brief as it is. 

And then it’s one foot in front of the other. Settling in for a longer wait, a slower progress. 

Not enough sleep, not enough rest. A few hours numbing herself on the tower, a few hours sleeping, over and over again in equal doses in the dark. The numbing wind helps keep the nightmares at bay, at least. 

Her office, her classroom, her rooms, get cleaner and cleaner, better and better organised. She catches up - and then some - on reviewing predictable journal articles and books and professional correspondence. She does not go into New London, but she and Tallie exchange several long lists and letters. And at night, she shifts between the tower and curling up again in the nest of her daybed, back pressed tightly against the wall, her body curved around pillows. Anything to hold on to. 

On Friday, she gets an idea, and spends the next two days gathering things together. Marzipan. A quick trip to the apothecary in Hogsmeade. An order here, an order there, by fire. 

In the midst, a strange owl arrives. She feeds it, idly, reads the message from Dai, and shakes her head, setting it aside after a long time simply staring at it and sending the owl back where it came from. 

That afternoon, she spends nearly an hour writing an absurdly short note. She writes and crosses out, and writes, and crosses out, over and over again. Four words forward, three words back. The end result is not right, exactly, but it’s clearly the closest she’s going to manage. When she’s done, she signs and seals it, packs a small box with marzipan and cushioning charms, and loops both over Nashira’s talons. “Toshenka, in Ireland.” she says, and sends her owl off into the darkness in a flutter of pale wings.

It’s Monday, before she hears back - a different owl, cranky at the distance, but she’s relieved by his note, by the implication. Ciphered, which gives her an idea how much he’s sharing, even here. On reflection, it gives her an answer for Dai. She sends it, worries over it, but knows, even as conflicted as she is, that “Turns out I’m not ready to talk to you yet.” is as good and honest and fair an answer as she has. 

She sleeps a little better that night. Two parts sleep to one part stars in the darkness. 

On Tuesday, she works harder at appearing normal. Hopeful. Relaxed. She manages it through lunch, more or less, but working up the relentless cheer to answer her Nana and to write the notes for the baskets placed on three desks in dark rooms wears her out. Leaves her ragged and raw at the edges.

As the darkness falls, she finds she cannot bear the thought of the supper table, and heads out, instead, to find a place in the stands and watch the Hufflepuffs practice. It is a pleasant distraction, at least. And entirely free from Dolores, though she nods at Hooch on her way back to the castle. 

She spends the rest of the evening alternating between her office and the top of the tower. She is up there, in the last few minutes before the fourth years arrive, when she turns, suddenly, looking at the north and an unexpected wave of light. She sits hard, looking over the edge of the tower, balanced on one of the large wood trunks and feels immediately much better.

The light starts as a pale blue-green-gray curtain, shimmering and pulsing, but without forming waves of colour. But as she watches, she sees bursts of intensity shoot up, flicker, and build. She hears steps come up the tower behind her, and then a startled “Wait…” She holds up a hand, and says. “That’s an aurora, yes.” 

In a few minutes, there’s a crowd of students, all watching, almost all silent. She finally pulls her eyes away for a moment, and grins at them, in sudden fierce joy. “Right. Let’s drop what I was planning. It’ll keep. Anyone want to tell me what’s causing that? Do any of you know?” As she begins to talk, she sees the colour build, into the classic curtains and sheets of blazing light. Largely green and blue, but with hints of reds and golds in and among. 

She leads them through an impromptu analysis of light and energy and the dance of the heavens, through the folklore. The tales of the aurora heralding an end to a conflict, or being a group of merry dancers, or the flight of the battle maidens of German lore. They spend nearly their full time talking and watching, the shifting of the light endlessly entrancing. In the end, she sends them down to bed, and then pulls her cloak tighter around her, sitting and watching long into the night. 

When she can manage to keep her eyes open no longer, she slips back down to her office. And there, she falls asleep, soundly and surely for the first time since the 3rd, until the light - and her alarm - wake her in the morning.

* * *

**November 16th, 1995**  
Wednesday and Thursday pass - easier, but she is still on edge. On Friday, she is in her classroom, tidying after the last class of the day, her back turned to the door while she files assignments, when she hears a soft “Rory?” She spins, and he pushes the door closed behind him, and then she’s across the room and in his arms. 

There’s a fierceness and a stubbornness, but also an awkwardness, neither of them quite sure what to do next. They stand there, silent, for a long time, wrapped in each other. Finally, he pulls back, and looks at her, thoughtfully. “Better now?”

She nods, slowly. “Much improved. You?” 

“Glad to be back.” 

And from there, they make their way back down to his rooms, hand in hand, walking through quiet halls. They spend the next hours, between half-two and midnight, together. In bed, on his couch. In talking over what’s happened at school. In napping together. Safe subjects. Not about her weeks, or his, or what he’s done. 

That night, she goes up to teach, but shoos the 7th years off the tower promptly at 2am. Bletchley wants to linger, and gets dragged away by several of his peers, with fierce whispers of “Don’t you know Professor Raz is back?” She was nervous, about whether to go down to him, but he’d insisted he’d rather have her there. 

By ten after two, she’s opening the door to his rooms carefully, clearing her throat, worried about startling him, but he’s on the couch, fingers working at a bit of leather, a glass of whiskey three-quarters drunk. She smiles, dropping her shoulder bag (change of clothes, a few books, the spindle and wool to be spun) before sliding into his arms again. 

**Moving forward**

Friday night is excellent. She wakes late on Saturday - they both do - and then they settle into making the most of the day. He works on catching up on marking from what seems a lifetime ago. She sorts through some of his old files, getting them into order so he doesn’t have to. She falls asleep on the couch, and he wakes her in time for a supper brought up by the elves. That opens a door - at least enough of one.

“Didn’t sleep much while we were gone?” 

She shakes her head. She won’t lie to him, of course. “It..” She pauses, trying to find the words. “It wasn’t like last spring. I had a few nightmares, but it was more … had a hard time getting my mind to stop. Mum sent a tisane that helped, but I spent a lot of time between the tower and the daybed in my office.”

He tilts his head. “Not your rooms? No wonder your back’s tense.” 

She shrugs. “It - I missed you too much, even in my rooms. I tried, and I just.. couldn’t. The tower’s more… all mine, y’know?” He nods, slowly, before she continues. “And.. made it easier. Would go out on the tower when I couldn’t sleep, look at stars, then come back in and fall into the daybed. It really did help.” 

He looks away, briefly, and she says. “Love, don’t blame you for not talking to me - I knew you were busy, I’m a grown woman. I coped. But I’d like to know a bit more. When you’re up for it.” 

There’s a long pause, and she worries that she’s pushed far too fast, far too soon. She waits, though, as patient and still and quiet as she can. 

“I knew you’d ask.” he says, finally. “Right.” And slowly, they talk through it. The beginning, what called them from bed at four in the morning. The initial discovery of the uprising. The bombs. That he’d been called from place to place. 

She realises that he’s killed again, and more than once, and in both the heat of the moment and in deliberation. Then, he gets to talking about spotting the man who killed Evan, and she gets even more careful. But this is so important, that point around which his world twisted and continues to pivot, that she has to draw him out. She listens to his voice, the hard and bitter edge, at his failure. About Rod finally pulling him away. She just lets him talk, keeping him going with a question here or there when he pauses for too long. Refills his drink just enough.

He glosses over the clean-up. Endless searches of homes and spaces, bringing order in the camps. The fact he’s less on edge about it tells her what she really needs to know. 

They make it through the evening, and she’s curled up, asleep beside him - the way her Saturday evenings should be. There’s a faint noise, that intrudes into her dream, but she wakes fully the next moment, because Raz is leaping out of bed. 

In the wavering light from the fireplace in the other room, she can see his shadow - wand out, body tense and fierce, before he stalks into the sitting room. She stays very still, not wanting to alarm him further. By the time he comes back, his wand is down, and his breathing has slowed, and she’s pushed herself up on her elbow. 

“Peeves - one of the picture frames.” he says, brusquely, and she nods, sitting up in bed and pulling the blankets up to her chest. 

“Did I scare you?” he asks, after a moment. And she has to figure out how to answer that. 

“Startled.” she finally says. “But…” She pauses. “Read enough to know - you were on duty for days and days, love.” she says. “Makes sense you can’t just put it down, make it stop overnight.”

He lets out a long breath, and nods. “Right.” he says, slowly. “That helps.” 

“Won’t surprise you.” she agrees. And then, with slightly more amusement. “Don’t think Peeves will any time soon, either.”

He pauses for a moment, has to nod, and sets his wand on the bedside table. 

“Come back to bed, love.” she says, softly. And he does.


	5. Format Informia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Siz attempts to sort out her head, after a week involving constructed memories, a major fight, and the world falling apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is chronologically disjunct - the bold time/date headers should be a help.

“We shall know what things are of overmastering importance when they have overmastered us.”  
_Gaudy Night_ : Dorothy L. Sayers

 **February 1st, 1996**  
For the first time in her life, she cannot bear to look at the stars. 

She has come to the hill above her family's home, trudging through the snow from the dark house below - her parents are still at work, though she's left a note. No telescope, no observing notebook. Just her and the sky and a cloak. She's tugged the rings from her fingers and taken the pendant from her neck - they are too heavy, too much weight, too much a reminder of her failure - and tucked them away in a pouch in her skirt. Next to the pocket watch. Safe, but out of sight and touch. 

She waits for the stars to come out, that slow-appearing hope and certainty. And then she has to shiver and stop, gasping. Not sure where to look. 

Always before, from the earliest she can remember, the stars have been a comforting blanket above her, patterns and connections and interactions shaping and shifting and reassuringly constant and predictable. 

Tonight, every point appearing in the dark reminds her how distant they are. From her, and from each other. She cannot get out of her head the endless black and empty space between them. 

She sits then, on the rock she's always used, heedless of the cold, and she pulls her knees to her chest and cries. Ignoring the wind. Ignoring everything, as she falls into the memory of shock after shock, chipping away at her understanding of the world, her certainty.

* * *

**December 21st, 1995**  
Sitting at supper, she is laughing, amused at a sotto voce comment from Tosha, her hand curled in Raz’s under the table. Both the men are amused by the mock-duel, and Bold Slasher and St George are clearly playing up not the demonstration duel, but moments from their classes and lectures.

It winds to the end, and St George falls, but as the players move on to “Alas, alas, look what you've done! You've hexed him down like the setting sun!”, she and the others watching from the staff table see the great doors swing open, and Umbridge stand there, silhouetted and radiant in pink. 

And then there’s the pause, as everyone realises. Her shrill little voice saying "Where are the Weasleys? I must tell them something urgent." And then everything grinding to a halt, and her sweeping up the Weasleys - and Miss Lovegood - and the news breaking.

Her hand tightens on Raz’s - her parents were there, her brother was there. But things spin out. She and Tosha look at each other, and know their plans for tonight are hopeless, and she retreats to Raz’s rooms after she quietly puts the word out that the exam and discussion are both cancelled. 

It’s later, around 8, that first Raz is summoned, and then Tosha’s note arrives, via a nervous house-elf. That clearly things are happening, and she is not sure what they mean. She curls up on Raz’s couch, and she waits, wishing beyond all reason that she’d given him his Christmas present early. She’s abandoned her planned vigil, just as Tosha had to. Or rather abandoned one vigil for another. 

When Raz comes back, much later that night, he doesn’t say much. Just “Later” and curls up around her in that way that makes her certain it was some new horror. But it wasn’t him, this time, and everything else can wait. 

**December 22nd, 1995**  
But the next day is the Malfoy party, and they don't have much time to talk. because they should be there early. Narcissa and Lucius - she’s seen them both enough now to recognise something is off. Always a second behind where she’d expect them to be, if they were really on for this kind of event. She doesn’t know why, and no one tells her, but she does her very best to be sociable and friendly, leaning into Raz’s hand against her back when she feels uncertain. 

Also much less teasing Raz about dancing girls, which is a sign in itself, she gathers. 

It’s better than last year, for her. Fiancée is a more stable position than 'new girlfriend'. And there are fewer snide comments that he'll dump her any moment. She knows more people, has more to say that isn't going to get her in trouble. But behind all of it, she watches Tosha, exerting himself to be charming in a way she's never seen in a crowd. Constantly shifting and dancing the conversation into an ebb and flow that almost seems right. 

Around ten, there's one of those silent ripples through the room, and Rod comes and has a word in Raz's ear. And then he bends, and murmurs, that there's something they need to talk about, he'll find her later. And she nods, and puts a brave face on it, because what else can you do? And she turns herself back to another round of society matrons asking questions about the wedding, and another round of pleasant answers, and another round of having those answers compared to every other wedding of note for the last five decades. Most of which she could describe now in her sleep despite having been to almost none of them.

At least it is a conversation that she can do with only a quarter of a brain, while keeping an eye on the conversations in the room. On whether Narcissa needs a hand. Of course, the problem is that she's got plenty of mind left for fretting. 

So at first, it is something of a relief when Chloe Selwyn comes up beside her in a quiet moment, and says "We should talk." And they find a corner, where there's not too much traffic, and she's not sure where this is going.

Talk is not the word. Once they're face to face, there's a beat, and then Chloe begins a long slow ramble, about how it can be hard to be one of the Council wives, and is she really up for that. Just as it's dawning on her that Chloe is first very drunk and second very upset about something, Chloe shifts gears, abruptly, and shares what happened the previous night. 

Share is not the right word. Launches. Wields. 

She begins with "You need to know what you're getting into." and from there, she goes point by brutal point. 

All of them getting called in, and the wives, too, and how that's never happened before, not like this. That the Council are all uneasy, unsettled. That the Lord Protector is raging, fierce and sharp and - she didn't say terrifying, but clearly he was. That there's a great deal of back and forth, about what went wrong, how the IMA could have such an attack at something in New London. 

And then he gets quiet, and the Council are, if anything, more nervous. And then, Chloe's voice gets lower, harsher. And she tells about Bettina Yaxley being brought into the circle. About Lucius being instructed to Crucio her. Bettina's magic being bound, so that if she so much as reaches for a wand, there will be agony. About demonstrating that, so that everyone knew. 

Rory stands there, and cannot run, cannot leave, cannot even hint that this is going so very wrong, so amazingly out of control. And so she keeps quiet, and she listens, and Chloe finally runs down, after her comments about her children, and how she can't protect them. And she listens to Chloe telling her to get out while she can, to run, and never look back. All the other pieces and fragments that she's had glimpses of. Torture and horror and casual evil. 

Finally, Chloe stops then looks up, as if she realises what she's done. And Rory escapes, fleeing down the nearest hall, into a salon overlooking the garden. Mercifully quiet. Just her, and broad windows, and silent darkness outside. She manages to write to Raz and to Tosha, but she doesn't imagine they'll break free. Not purposeful as Rod looked. 

She sits there for - well, she realises later it's a long time. Nearly an hour. Stunned and unable to think, and yet unable to stop thinking. Finally, she knows she needs to drag herself back to the party. Pretend, along with everyone else, that everything is just fine. And she writes, and she runs her hands under cold water, and then she straightens her shoulders.

The universe is smiling on her, because the first room she comes to, there's Pansy. And it's clear that Pansy's been half-looking for her, and anyway, is glad to make easy, pleasant conversation that has no unexpected twists and drops to bother her. Ten minutes of that, and she's settled enough to invite someone else to join them, someone she knew slightly through YPL work. And then a few more come over, and Pansy eventually slips away to something else. 

By the time she feels Raz come up behind her, she is managing. He leans over her shoulder, and says "Do we need to make an escape?" in her ear. And she turns her head, and murmurs "We really can't. Help me?" And she feels his arm slide around her back, and his reassuring presence, and then he's thrown himself full into Life Of The Party mode, turning himself into a quaffle amongst the Chasers, and she can relax a little and just follow his lead. 

A brief pause gives her enough time to reassure Tosha, as Raz is contemplating where their conversational focus might do the most good, and then they're off again, to circulate and be merry and cheerful. And finally, things wind down, and she helps Narcissa nudge people out, and finally it's over. 

**Late December, 1995**  
There are other moments that shake her in those weeks. Seeing the aftermath of whatever it was they did, the 28th. Tosha, shining and bright and holding the attention of everyone in the room. That same glow from Lucius, from Barty. It worries her, at the same time she is glad to see him better. To see what he is at his best. Because she knows what it means that he can't tell her much of what happened. 

There is the moment in his library, that is a shock. Hearing him admit that he is uncertain, he of all people, that he's seen things that have shaken his loyalty. Of her folding to her knees, taking his hand after that moment of desperate and bitterly careful admission. Of both of them knowing how dangerous it is. 

There's the argument with Dai, fierce and harsh and true, all at once, and all the time she's spent working herself up to be able to say what she needs to - and be able to listen. It goes well enough, but it leaves her exhausted, shaking, uncertain of her ground for days before and after, in all the small ways. 

But these, at least, she can fit into a known sky, somehow. They have pieces that fit, even while the stars move.

* * *

**Tuesday, January 29th, 1995**  
She is already wary, coming back, given the formal announcement and what is clearly a summons. But not wary enough. 

At eight, precisely (because she left the Archetype early, paying her forfeit without complaint), she knocks on the door of Dolores' office, and then enters when bidden. There's a sentence or two of politeness, and then, suddenly, it's all bitter. Against the faint mews of the kittens in the plates, she hears beat after beat against every defence she has. 

That Dolores is in control now. That things will be different. That she is not to spend time alone in private with Raz, that Dolores will know. That Dolores holds her job and "Your mother works for dear Latimer, doesn't she?" is slipped in, sweet and nasty, so that she doesn't even realise until Dolores is on to the next threat.

There's near thirty minutes of that, threat tucked into lecture tucked into patronising commentary and assumption. But it's not the worst. Not by far. Eventually, Dolores draws out a Pensieve from a nook of her room, and says "There is something you need to see. Just the teensiest snippet, dear. There's no need to show you the more … physical parts." And she has no idea what Dolores means, but is tugged into the memory, all unwilling. 

Into a boudoir, strewn with pillows. A bed. Cassie Calderwood, lying in it, and… 

She'd close her eyes, run away, except she can't, because she's caught in the memory. And because she can't believe what she sees. Raz, clearly just post-coital. She knows his back, the broad shoulders, the way his hair flares at the back. The smile on Cassie's face, of having something she'd yearned for. Her hands on his shoulders. Him, nuzzling at her neck for a moment. She can't see his face, not really, and she is so very glad of that. Just Cassie, and her satiation, and her pleasure. 

When Dolores draws her out of the memory again, she's shaking and she's cold and she can't breathe. Can't think. Can't find words. 

Dolores says something, and in that moment, Rory would have promised anything to make it go away. But she manages not to speak, and though Dolores gets this little smile on her face - that same look of obsessive satisfaction she's just seen on Cassie - the witch lets her go. 

She flees up flights of stairs to her office, and she locks the door behind her and curls into the corner with the daybed, and shakes for hours. By the time she calms, there's just enough minutes before the fourth years to wash and change her robes, and pull herself into some semblance of coherence. She only manages it because she knows her field as she does, and she knows these students as she does. 

She doesn't sleep. She barely eats. She walks through her classes in a daze, apparently covering enough - she manages to watch a trusted face or two in each session for puzzlement - but she is a shadow of herself in every possible way. 

Wednesday night is worse. Struggling to find words, failing. 

And then that awful moment - wonderful, but awful - where she realises just how much of himself Raz has invested in teaching, in caring for his students. And just how much she hadn't realised he had. By then it's too late to change what she's said, and she hates herself more for it, in between biting her lip, and trying not to sob, trying not to startle Linus. Because the last thing she needs is trying to explain it to this particular Ravenclaw. 

In the end, it is back to the bathroom, and back to cold water on her wrists until she's almost steady enough. And then out into the numbing cold, and the practicalities of teaching. 

Thursday is miserable. It begins with Cedric lingering after class. She could send him away, but she knows if she does, it will be even more obvious how broken she is. And he doesn't need that. So she looks at him, and says "Office?" 

He nods, and follows her upstairs. She drops her notes on her desk, and turns around to face him. 

"Are you okay?" 

She won't lie to him and they both know what the answer really is. After a moment, he moves on. 

"Can you say anything about Raz?" 

She flinches, just for a moment, then finally says "No." Just the one word. 

And then he asks, all in a rush, whether Umbridge's support goes all the way to the top. And she doesn't know. She doesn't begin to know how to answer. Because if it does, what does it mean? And if it doesn't, but the Lord Protector hasn't stepped in, what does that mean? And her pulse is loud in her head, and finally she says "It's really complicated. She's got…" And she pauses, finding words. "Unexpected leverage." 

And then Cedric asks what she's so proud of him asking, and hates that he asked. That there are people with connections who want to push back. That he'd love whatever information she has. And she has none, at least none she can share. And she can't think again, and her brain has seized up, and her office is blurry, and she has to fight to draw breath and seem normal. 

She finally manages "I," And a pause. "Anything I tell you right now…" And then finally "Give me a little time. Just."

And she can see how badly she's failing. Again. That there's nothing to say. 

He tries anyway, and she is prouder still, for a flashing moment, when he offers his help. Undoes her with his whole-hearted support of Raz, something she'd not managed to give. And then she feels shame, all over again, and she nods, and closes her eyes, and braces her hands against the desk as he leaves. Until the room stops spinning enough that she can close her door and lock and ward the office, and fall onto the daybed. 

The rest of the day is a mess of turning over in her mind what she could have done better (all of it), and what she was failing to do now (everything) and whether there was a way out (unlikely). And to call what she's gotten sleep is to insult the idea, but she dares neither go to Poppy nor ask her to come. Not and take her away from Tosha. Food's not much better.

Friday, she flees. She spends the time she isn't sleeping on Thursday night writing draft after draft until she has something abject and submissive enough to make Dolores smile that terrifying smile. She works out how to write to Georg in a way that hints at what she really needs, but which will not give her away if Dolores demands to see the request. (She'd put it in German, or Latin, but that does not seem safe enough.) She comes down to her rooms just long enough to pack a bag and bring it back to her office. 

And then she holds her breath, to see if Dolores will allow it. She'd go anyway, she thinks, but permission is better than forgiveness here. She hopes. 

It works. And there's Cedric, all over again, demonstrating all the ways she's failed this week, but also all the ways there might be redemption. Eventually.

* * *

**February 1st, 1996, afternoon**  
At two, she sends a house-elf to the workroom with the article. At five past, she is at the top of the tower, on the broom she keeps there, and she is flying for the apparation point. The only way to avoid running into the wrong person on her way out. (And as there are many wrong people this week, the odds are not in her favour.) 

She stops, by the gate, and pulls herself together, forcing herself to concentration and determination, and apparates to outside Storm's shop. She lets herself into the store, and hears a "Moment." from the workshop itself. 

"Your sister." she replies. And he hears enough in her tone - well, and that she's not saying "Best sister" - that he's there in a moment, before the clatter of setting aside some large block of wood stops sounding in the next room. 

He looks at her, and then just pulls her down into the little nook with the comfy chairs and the table, that he keeps, and he says "Moment." and disappears upstairs, coming back a minute later with a pot of tea, a cheese sandwich, an apple. She closes her eyes - she needs to eat, and she can't stomach it, and he says "Eat. Or I'll take steps." And that would mean her mother. 

She manages a half-dozen small bites, and more of the tisane. And then he says "Why'd you come?" 

She closes her eyes and leans back, and says only "Bad things. Need to think. Umbridge thinks I'm here." 

"I'll cover." he says, immediately. "Where are you going? Spencer House?" And he sees her flinch. "That bad?" 

She half-shrugs. "Mum and Dad's. But … before they get home. Need time on my own. I'll leave a note." 

He nods. "Watch me work for a bit?" he offers. 

And she nods, and does, and after she's managed half the sandwich (and he's eaten the other, never being one for waste) she comes into the workshop, and breathes in the scent of the wood, and watches him shape broad bowls, and polish them smooth with beeswax. The repetition is soothing, and she stays there until nearly four, when she takes herself to their parents. 

Just before she leaves, he asks "You or him?" and she shrugs. "Her, and then me." 

She leaves her bag in her old room - now much changed - and a note on the table. The house is entirely dark, it must be one of the days the family elf is with Diane's brood. And then she pulls her cloak around her, and takes off her jewelry, and goes out through the sleeping rose garden, and through the bare-branched orchard, and up the hill to where she's always looked at stars. 

**Back on the hill in the dark, later that evening**  
She loses herself for a long time on that hill, floating in misery and uncertainty, until she's shivering and the cold has seeped into her, overwhelming the charms. There's ice in her hair, and on her cheeks from her tears. And finally, she drags herself down off the hill, back through the orchard, and into the house. She stops, in the shadow, to pull the rings on again. 

There is a light in the kitchen, now, and her mother and father sitting at the table. Waiting. Leaving the chair nearest the hearth for her. Storm has clearly been on to them, translating the dozen sentences she said this afternoon into something - well, about right. Her father takes one look at her, stands, kisses her on the forehead, and leaves her to her mother. There is a mug of tisane in her hands, without her asking. And then a bowl of soup, in front of her. She looks up, for just a moment, and her mother is watching, patient. 

Rory opens her mouth, and then closes it. There's so much she can't say. Can't talk about the Council. Can't talk about her fears. Can't talk about the accusations. Can't talk about Raz. She finally manages "It's complicated." 

Her mother stops for a moment, thinks, then tries a careful. "What can we do for you, Auri?" 

She lets out a long breath. "Space." she says, finally. And she means - they both know she means - both literal and metaphorical. A bed that's not at Hogwarts. Space not to have to talk. 

Her mother reaches out, and pats her hand. "Always. As long as you need." 

She knows she has to go back. She will not leave her students to Dolores. As tempting as it is to run and hide and never look back. And she eats her soup, and drinks from her mug, in silence.

She stops by her father's study, while her mother rummages for the good bath oils. He's sitting at his new desk, the lamp lit, pretending to look at an account book. She leans against the doorway, and he looks up, and there's an expression on his face that says everything. Wanting to protect her from the world, and knowing he can't. But just to be clear, there are words. Not about the news from Hogwarts, not about the things none of them have said about Dolores at the Ministry. Instead, it is a quiet "Is he treating you right?" 

She takes a long time to answer, but finally she says. "I didn't treat him right. There's more, I can't say." 

"You need our help, you ask." It's half question, half stubborn love imposed on a terrifying world. 

She nods, and then comes to kiss his cheek and whisper "Promise, Daddy." in his ear, and feels him relax enough. 

Her mother shoos her into a hot bath, where she gets a glimpse in the mirror of how utterly hellish she looks, from the tears and the cold and the stress and the misery. Pale and sunken, her eyes red and puffy from crying. She soaks in the bath for a long time, until she's almost warm again, and then she is alone in her old room. It's not what it was, when it was hers and Diane's. Everything's in different places. But the window's the same. She turns her face away, and lies in the dark, still not looking at the stars.

There are nightmares. Worse, even, than the previous nights. There's no space of blissful dark between them at all. 

Her trying to get to Raz, and the horrible flash of aching green light. Him looking at her, and then turning away, leaving her in the dark, with sniping harsh voices picking at her. Being trapped and alone, in a vast darkness, seeing him far in the distance, unable to reach him. Feeling everything slip through her fingers, that wrenching knowledge of everything she cares about is falling into shreds. Student after student turning away, because he's shared how she failed him. 

They are so bad that her mother comes in before dawn, when the light is just beginning to shift. There's a potion in her hand, and she says "Drink it." It's her mother. Who's right. And they both know it. She drinks, and she closes her eyes, and her mother sings, softly. Old songs, charm songs, for gentle sleep and release from fear, for grace in dark times. 

**February 2nd, 1996**  
It's nearly noon when she finally wakes - her mother has left her an old wool dress, worn smooth and comfortable, something that feels different than her usual robes. When she wanders into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes, she finds her mother, her father, and an entirely-too-casual Storm, Artio at his feet. 

She kisses her father on the cheek, lets her mother feed her, and listens to their talk flow around her and over her, steadying herself in the predictable rhythms. When she's done poking at her eggs and toast and feeding half of them to the dog (no one comments on that), Storm says, "Thought you might like a walk." 

And she does. They go out, slogging through the hills up to the old reservoir, Artio bouncing beside them. The exertion's enough - hills and seven miles, and the cold - that they really can't talk, though they stop every so often to look at a bird, a view, tracks in the snow. And slowly, she sorts things out in her head. They come back to hot chocolate, fresh shortbread, a warm fire, a dog piled on her feet. She helps her mother cook tea, and then she disappears into the guest room writing draft after draft of a note to Raz. Hoping it might help. Finally settling on one.

She comes out, and says. "Mum. Dad." And they're sitting there, her mother winding yarn, her father reading aloud while she does, and they wait.

"Dolores Umbridge," she says, careful, measuring her words. "Has accused Raz of something he would never do, removed him from teaching. She's threatened my job. And she's held Mum's job hostage for my good behaviour." She expands, another sentence or two, while they listen. And then, at the end, she says. "Should I go? I didn't tell her I was coming here." 

Her mother puts down her yarn, not worrying one bit about the tangle that will come, and holds out her arms. "Don't be silly." she says. 

She still can't talk about her failures, about how she knows she let Raz down. But at least they know, now, the threats. There are no further words, so she sits and helps her mother untangle and wind her yarn, and listens for the chime of her journal. She cannot bear to go look at the stars. They both watch her, warily, for this is not the daughter they've known as an adult, and they treat her like a newly grafted branch on one of the apple trees. Oddly fragile if you push at the wrong place. 

Eventually, her father starts reading again, one of the biographies that Sage's publisher has put out. She's read it, but that's easier. She doesn't have to think, just let the words flow over her, as she shifts the yarn and her mother winds. 

Her journal chimes, and she picks it up, immediately. And her parents don't quite lean forward, but do pause, while she reads. 

And there's the moment where her heart stops, and then she just has to laugh. It's a bit hysterical, as laughter goes, and there's tears coming out of her eyes when she manages to catch her breath. Her parents are watching her like she is some entirely new magical species, never before seen. She closes her eyes for a moment and shakes her head, and says "He did this thing he does." 

Which is no help at all, but they both look at her, decide that laughter is better than tears - or nightmares - and let her be. She reads again, and then wanders off to the guest room, to write properly, with a vague "May be back out, may go elsewhere, I don't know yet. Don't wait up? I'll leave a note if I go, and you're the best parents ever." and a hug to each of them. Because she is very distracted again, in new directions. 

There's a little back and forth, and then late in the night, she takes herself off quietly to Spence, leaving a note for her parents. She pauses, just for a moment, in the garden, and looks up at the stars.


	6. Perficit Imperfect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Siz spent her spring holidays

“A marriage of two independent and equally irritable intelligences seems to me reckless to the point of insanity.”   
_Gaudy Night_ , Dorothy L. Sayers.

* * *

**March 30, 1996**  
As soon as she can, she flees Hogwarts. She's sent her book trunk and her clothes ahead to Spence, and once the students are all piled off onto the train, she gathers her last things (her satchel, her telescope) and walks to the apparition point. She's there, waiting, in the library, when Raz arrives, having seen to Harry's security. She reaches for him and revels in his arms around her, his smell of broomwood and cologne and his magic. And he folds her against him, and they just breathe. 

It's awkward at first. She'd wondered if it would be, after six weeks - really eight - when they've had no time that wasn't scrupulously public. Her life, laid out in fragments, spread across the sky. And she's not sure about him. How much he's been brooding. What his temper might be like.

She loves him, but she doesn't pretend to understand him. No more than she understands the stars, for all the years she's looked up. That's part of the point. 

They're careful, contained, controlled - both of them not sure of the other, but trying not to make things worse. There's a quiet lunch, on the terrace, looking out at the park. Simple conversation, safe things. Their respective commitments for the holidays. After, she curls up in a chair in the library and reads, while he - does something. She's not sure. 

And she falls asleep, because whether or not they're talking like they should be, she knows she's entirely safe for the first time in months. She wakes when the sun is beginning to go down, to him carefully clearing his throat near her, his hand a few inches from her shoulder. Someone - him, she assumes - has tucked a blanket around her while she slept. 

"The elves have quite a supper planned, apparently. You want a bath before?" He doesn't ask how she is, or how she's been sleeping. Some things they really don't need to talk about. 

She stretches, and rubs at one of her eyes, but nods. "Thanks." she says, and takes the hand he holds out to her as she untangles her feet and retrieves her book, and makes her way to rummage for something to change into. 

The elves have been very busy - her robes are all unpacked, her toiletries tidily placed by the sink in the bathroom. There's a bath already running, the smell of spring: apple blossoms and cool rain and sunshine on damp grass. There's music playing, something from her own collection, ancient dances and resonant melodies. She sinks into the water, and just leans back for a long time, letting the scent and the sound wash over her. 

Finally, she sets to scrubbing all of the past weeks off of her skin. Washing away every indignity, every moment of uncertainty and fear, every time she's woken in the night sure someone is in the room that shouldn't be, every moment she's had to stop and keep tight rein of her fear and her anger and her hatred, so she could carry on. She can't wash it all away, as much as she tries. But it's better. 

Then it's out of the bath, and drying charms, and into a set of robes she's kept for this. Not teaching robes, not dress robes, but robes for the life she's waiting to build, a self beyond teaching, beyond looking at the sky. A draping low-cut dress of rich blue. Wand holster, two rings, the pendant. Just enough in the way of cosmetic charms. She's finishing as she hears the chime that the meal is ready. 

The look in his eyes when he watches her come into the dining room is the first star in the sky, that eternally renewed hope and delight. And indeed, the elves have outdone themselves. There is course after course of elegant, complicated little tastes. Exquisite, even if she can barely remember each one after it passes. But eventually - two hours after they sit down - they are done with the dessert, done with the drinks. And they're more in sync. Fewer times when they both speak at once, or when there's a long uncomfortable silence. 

He stands, and holds out his hand, and she sees that flash of uncertainty in his eyes, before he says, careful, considerate. "We could retire?" It's half question, half offer, but when she nods, he leans to kiss her, then slides her arm through his. It's then that he realises she's wearing the arm holster, and he tilts his head. "You expect to need it?" 

And she has to shake her head, amused. "Not with you. But…" She pauses, trying to find the right words. "It made me feel like you were with me, even when you couldn't be." 

The expression on his face says everything, and then he just leads her off, back to their bedroom. She hates to admit it, but there is something in the absence that makes the rest of the evening that much more. More vibrant, more needy, more potent. Also more complicated. They have indeed fallen out of step with each other, but as soon as they realise that, they both, mutually, without words, slow down. Take their time. Explore again, anew, without expectations. 

It does not stay slow. But it avoids the frantic distraction of their first night, or the desperate intensity of the night before Court, last August. Instead, it is steady and insistent, as if each touch is carrying paragraphs of meaning, reminding them both of what they're fighting for, what they're wanting. 

And it is deeply satisfying in its imperfection. Real. This is her Raz, not her dreams of him. 

By the end, when he is curled around her in the dark, and she is nestling back against him, completely safe and far more sure of herself again, she lets out a long sigh, and says, very quietly. "Missed you so much." 

His arm tightens around her, and he nuzzles at her neck. "We'll talk about what we can do. In the morning." 

**March 31st, 1996**  
In the morning, she wakes slowly, tucked against him. He is reading, his free hand slowly stroking her shoulder. It is the first night she has slept straight through in weeks, and she leans into the novelty. "Mmmph." Not the most coherent in the mornings, but he translates correctly. 

"It's about ten. The elves would like to feed us breakfast in bed, when you're ready." 

She rubs her eyes, and runs her fingers through her hair, and pushes herself up on an elbow. His hair is a tumbled mess, sticking up oddly as it does when he's not convinced it to behave, and she is relaxed and languid and with all the right kinds of aches that remind her how good last night was. Not moving seems like a lovely idea. She finally slides on a dressing gown he hands her, and wiggles to sit upright, before he summons the elves and they bring in breakfast. 

They lounge - he's been reading the papers - and they begin to talk through some of what they need to sort out. She's seen the gossip rags too, the implications that he's getting cold feet. She has spent the last week trying to figure out how to say what she wants here, and finally, she gets out. "If you were, that's not how you'd do it, love."

And he blinks at her, fork halfway to his mouth with a bite of sausage, and he says "You don't doubt me?"

She has to grin. "After last night? No. But…" She pauses. "Could we go somewhere suitably public? Together? Madam Headmistress will throw a fit, but we needn't imply I'm staying here. Something decorous, but where it's entirely clear we're still madly in love." 

They talk through it, without any real decision, but without any upset either, and when the elves take the trays away, she gets up and changes into outdoor robes. They walk in the park, and then he takes himself off to check on Harry while she walks back and curls up in the Painted Room, in the light and the art and glowing greenness of the walls. She falls asleep again, and doesn't wake until he comes back in the late afternoon. 

He inserts himself at her back, and she leans against him, lazy in the setting sun. "Really not sleeping well?" he asks. 

It's just as well she can't really look at him straight on right now. It's easier to talk that way. "Not nightmares." And then, because she's being honest. "Mostly. But…" She stops, fumbling for words, and he just waits her out. "Don't feel.. don't feel safe." she finally says. "Not with Her in power. I keep waking up, and - defence charms under my breath, and thinking someone's just outside my door and…" She stops.

"Oh, love." She shifts to lean against him better, to reassure herself of his solidity and reality. That she's not dreaming. And they sit there, in silence, for a while, before he says. "What would help? Besides the obvious." 

"You, and then Madam Headmistress gone far away, never to trouble us again?"

He nods, she can feel it. She shrugs. "Good question. If I think of an answer, I'll tell you." 

"Can you bear it?" 

Another shrug. "I have to. No, love. It… it's not all right, but I will manage. Delilah's kept me in enough potions that I can take one when I really need to sleep. I nap in my office sometimes, it feels safer there. Well, more warding on the stairs, so I know I have warning." 

"I can look at your wards again, when we get back." he offers. "Find some excuse." 

She nods. "I'd like that." 

**April 1, 1996**  
The next few days pass quietly. Tosha gets them word about the planned meeting. Part of her is delighted, and part of her is suddenly and unbearably furious. That it's only now, when their own pet interests are threatened, that Horace and Septima actually want to do something. 

She excuses herself, goes for a long walk, up into Hyde Park, and then, because it's not nearly long enough, back through Green Park, and then around St James. Seven miles, she thinks, and she has only begun to settle down, inside her head, in the last mile. But she's also been gone long enough he might start to worry, and so, instead of another loop around Green Park, she walks back to the door of Spencer House.

She comes in, taking off her light cloak, and asking the elves for tea in the library, and is sliding her shoes off for them to clean, when she hears Raz come in behind her. He coughs, carefully. 

"Better?"

She turns, and shrugs. "A bit." A pause, and she adds. "Not so likely to take it out unfairly on you, anyway?" 

She follows him into the library, and the elves come with tea and little sandwiches, and bits of marzipan, and she is somewhat soothed. Not entirely, but enough that, yes, she is up for talking. She settles sideways on the sofa, and tucks her toes under his thigh, and considers what to say. He just waits. 

Finally, she looks up, and she says. "I've been trying to figure out…" And she stops again. He's patient, deliberate. 

"I hate her so very much." she says finally. "I hate her all the time. And it's getting worse and worse. Part of what wakes me in the night isn't nightmares. It's dreams of her being gone, and how … " She stops. "How triumphant it feels. How I'll do anything in the world rather than live under her one moment more." 

She leans forward, reaching out a hand for a moment, then letting it drop to her knee. "I don't like being that person. I don't like her making me into that kind of person. But I don't know how to stop it." She gives up, and lets the words out, because if she doesn't say them it will be worse and worse and worse. "That hating her changes me in ways that will make you love me less." 

She feels his hand tighter on hers, but there's a long pause, a painfully long one. What he gives her isn't absolution, isn't an answer, but after his silence, he leans to kiss her, and she can tell he's thinking of something very complicated, and that it's not her that he's avoiding.

She doesn't push. She's said the bit she truly needs to. 

**April 3rd, 1996**  
The days pass. There is time working on projects, time with Raz, time with Harry. A remarkable amount of time napping on a couch, whenever she curls up. When they get to the meeting, she has begun to find her balance, a bit. 

And then she is uncertain, all over again. It is delightful to see Minerva and Poppy. To be able to talk more openly with Pomona, the two of them standing outside Horace's cottage for a bit in the dark, her looking up at the stars, Pomona peering at his plants, before they start. 

The actual meeting is harder. They talk around so many subjects, and when they get to the actual accusations, she excuses herself with a brief "This would be easier if I weren't in the room." By which she means "This would be easier if you did not have me panicking in the middle of the conversation." Because talking about it, looking at it face on, what Cassie accused him of, all the things Cassie is symbol of now, still pushes her to that place where there is no space to breathe, to think, to hope. 

She is standing outside, leaning against the wall of the house, looking up, and trying desperately to breathe evenly when Raz comes to find her, twenty minutes later. Trying to make there be nothing in the world but the comforting stars in their places, whose change is slow and steady. He's silent, when he comes up, other than clearing his throat from a few feet away, so she won't startle, and she holds out a hand to him. 

"Ready to come back in?"

She nods, and when she returns to Horace's sitting room, with all the photos and awards and marks of affection, Pomona hands her a glass of wine, and they settle into the conversation bouncing between Horace and Tosha and Raz, the Slytherins at work. Septima chimes in, a few times, and Minerva. She lets it wash over her, and feels frustrated. 

They go back to Spence, at the end, and she's quiet, while they get ready for bed. And there's days more, of trying to do the simple things, that need doing anyway, punctuated with long walks, and a few long broomrides with Raz, and occasional conversations. 

**April 6th, 1996, the day they were supposed to marry**  
She clearly wakes on the wrong side of the bed. The day before, she'd started feeling raw and on edge, more and more uncomfortable in her own skin. Tosha had lured her out to Poundtree, tempted her with titles - and he was trying so hard to be a pleasant diversion that she'd let him buy her a few things. 

It wasn't enough. The night with Raz, both of them still careful and gentle with each other, wasn't enough. And so she was awake, with that feeling itching at her. They make their way through breakfast, and shortly after, when she's curled up in a chair in the library, trying to decide what to do, she hears the quiet status-jockeying of house-elves from two homes. 

Finally, both the Spence elves show in her parent's elf, Herdy, who is levitating a massive flower arrangement, near taller than she is. 

"Mistress and Master is telling me to deliver this to Miss Auri. And I is doing it. I is not needing escorting." 

Rory waves a hand. "It's all right." she says, clearly. "She's from my parents." There's a pause, while the flowers are levitated to the broad table, and her eyes flick across them. All the little floral references she and Tallie had carefully designed, after consulting with her mother and with Pomona. Yellow curving around the roses in the center, white on the other, bound together and set off by green. 

Apple blossom - white from her mother's orchards - for love and preference and family. A red rose and a white for unity. For her, golden yellow honeysuckle (for generous and devoted affection) and limonium (for loyalty). For him, white hyacinth (sport and game and play - but also constancy and fertility - that made her mother laugh and laugh), and hollyhock (ambition, to match her loyalty). White sweet pea for pleasure, and lily of the valley for faithfulness, for both of them. All wrapped with ivy, for marriage, and with sage tucked between the blooms for health and long life. 

It smells wonderful, and she inhales for a moment, and then shivers, but Herdy's holding out two notes, carefully addressed. One to her, one to Raz. She excuses herself, bringing the note with her to the dressing room she's been using, and leaning against the wall while she reads. It is - there's a sudden surge of anger and irritation and helplessness and misery. She has to read it several times, and then she grabs her journal, and scribbles, fast and hard, and she's putting her quill aside when Raz comes looking for her. She wheels, at the sound of his footsteps, and then looks away. 

"Not fit company, love." she says, finally, rummaging in her things for something suitable, and stripping off her clothes ruthlessly and rapidly, before putting on walking robes, stout shoes, something for a long hike. "Read it if you like, just..." 

He holds out a hand, the expression on his face unreadable, and she just shakes her head. "Not fit company. Let me go walk, mm? May be a few hours." 

And he nods, and she goes. Goes far away, as it turns out. She can't walk Alde's lands anymore, not without getting permission, but there's a public ramble, near the old property, that she did over and over again in the months she was preparing for her Mastery. She goes there now, with a walking stick and sturdy shoes, and all the rolling misery and discomfort and irrationality that's boiling within her. 

She walks and walks along the top of the sea cliffs, with the waves up against the base, and the seagulls and the birds. It takes her eight miles to begin to calm down, another three to start feeling settled. By the twelfth, she is finally quiet inside herself again, she feels a blister forming, and she has started to feel guilty. She does another two miles on principle, purity through exhaustion, and then finally apparates back, mid-afternoon.

Raz has gone out, leaving a careful note, but she puts herself in a bath, and apologises to the house-elves again, and then loses herself in complicated astronomy for a few hours, to make sure her temper will stay put. And when she's sure it has, she writes to her mother again. Not apologetic, not yet. But a bit more conciliatory. 

There is a quiet evening, and Raz is so much himself, and they manage, though he's clearly feeling out of his depth as well. They go to bed early, but she wakes in the middle of the night, and wanders to the library, with just a single lamp to keep her company. 

She is in the midst of a set of five-part coordinate checks, when she realises something: that she is letting herself feel helpless. What she told her mother is true, it's complicated and it's tangled, and if it had easy answers, someone would have fixed things by now.

But that maybe there's more she can do that's of use. Or if not here, maybe somewhere else, something she's not thinking about. It is too new, too fragile a thought to bear much weight, but she finishes her calculations and goes back to bed, carefully tucking herself back in against Raz, and feeling his arm curve around her, and she sleeps.

**April 7th, 1996**   
That next day, Lucius and Narcissa invite them both for tea. She is not looking forward to it, still feeling touchy and sharp and raw in all the places she shouldn't be. And after her argument with her mother (a rather one-sided argument, mind you, since her mother waited it out and only replied that morning with all the things that Hufflepuff mothers say to soothe their rattled children), she is unsure. 

It turns out to be far more pleasant than she'd thought. Lucius and Narcissa are - careful might actually be the word - with them both. There are quiet commiserations, promises that it will end, conversations around the edges of the touchy places. And she sees again and again, both how they are so well suited for each other (which they are, no matter what she sometimes thinks of both of them that is less than generous) and how they have held the power they have for so long. 

It is desperately relaxing to be with people who know the accusations, who dismiss them entirely, and who yet understand the weight and the burden and the uncertainty. Narcissa walks her through the garden, talking quietly of summer plans and gently around the wedding, and Lucius and Raz talk (not to much end, she learns later: they have still no brilliant ideas for insisting on access to Cassie for questioning.) 

There is something startlingly soothing, to watch that many Slytherin minds intent on a project that deeply concerns her. More so than the meeting. She knows full well they're doing it for Raz, almost entirely. But the process is rather - would be entirely, if it were not so hard for her - fascinating. 

**April 8th, 1996**   
On the Monday, she has tea with Chloe, and they dance around each other again. But this time, it is clear that Chloe's comments are not about Rory, not about Raz, but about her own fears, her own worries, her own stars. 

They talk around it. That being a Council Member's wife is like being an appendage: something that can be harmed or shaped or hurt if it serves the whole, without any real thought or concern. That while Raz may do his best to protect her, as long as he loves her, that that protection will go only so far. All of them will go only so far against their Lord. 

And they circle around to other fears. Chloe brings up taking Divination, long ago, and seeing a shrouded future, again and again, no matter what else she saw for other people, no matter what method she used. She laughs it off, even talking in her sitting room, with her children in and out with their nanny, but Rory sees something there. That quiet worry that will not go away. Rory has nothing to say, not to that. 

She is not unsettled by the conversation, quite. She doesn't know how to explain to people that it was too late six months after she met Raz, long before there was love or sex or commitment drawing them closer together. Maybe three months, that first apology of his, where she looked at it, and knew she should be upset, and couldn't be. That he'd already slipped too far into loyalty and friendship for her to set aside. 

Stopping now, turning away now, doing what Chloe told her to do, and backing away from the center of their world, as much as she could - she can't. She is no Gryffindor, she knows that. And no Slytherin, either, where ambition might substitute for courage. But the loyalty binds her, holds her. She could undo it, maybe, but it would be at the cost of what makes her her. That she will not let him stand there, before their Lord, alone. Not any more.

It's not that that would be much better. Hogwarts, of necessity, is a land that borders the uneasy whim of their Lord day in and day out. She's seen it through the YPL. She saw it last year, with Cedric's trust and honour and work bent and near broken. Harry, stretched thin and thinner, trying to make too many people happy. If she had not seen, maybe she could back away. But the person she is, the person built on seeing and making shapes in the dark, of finding meaning in the vastness, of playing macrocosm and microcosm against meaning and practice - she can not will herself blind.

Running away would be worse. Not better. Even without Raz in the chart. And she cannot run far enough, anyway. 

**April 10th, 1996**  
On Wednesday - well, it is a very complicated Wednesday. There is tea with her mother, at which they carefully circle the topic of Diane. Rory doesn't apologise, not quite. She can't bring herself to. But honesty and love and loyalty bring her to say "It wasn't helpful, what I said." 

"Did it make you feel better?" Her mother's voice is even, steady. As if she's worked out every branch this conversation might take. 

She thinks, for a moment. "Yes?" she asks. "I didn't think so, but yes." She's more sure now. Something in letting that outburst flow out, and away, and strong helped. 

"Do you want to talk more about it?"

Rory leans back in the chair - they're in the Archetype, she's planted herself here for the afternoon and evening - and taps her fingers on her mug (something solid and dense in a deep glazed pottery, and she really must buy a few of her own.) And her mother waits. 

"Mum." she says finally. "Would you - if I told you what Raz is accused of, would you not tell Dad? Or Diane, or Orion? Or is that unfair to ask?"

Her mother looks her back, evenly. "It's the kind of thing they'd take wrong, then?"

Rory nods. "Rather." 

Her mother takes her time, does her the compliment of thinking it through. "If that's what you need." 

She takes a deep breath, and says, spinning out word from word. "Raz is accused of inappropriate conduct with a student. One who had an… obsession with him last year. The accusation - there's a memory - is that she wanted it, not that …" She stops, and swallows hard. "Not that he forced her or anything. But that…" She stops again, and then says. "I swear he didn't. Wouldn't. Like that. Not for all his reputation was he like that." 

Her mother listens, her head cocked to one side, and then when Rory's voice fades out, says "You're sure?"

"Very. I - I couldn't think about it right, that bad week. When I came to you. Because - well. The obsession part got complicated last year." She's dancing around the topic, and she knows it, but her mother's clearly piecing enough together. 

"No. I can see why your father - and Orion - would make the worst of it. He's treating you well, your Raz?"

"Now we can spend time together, yes. But - we went six weeks without even a conversation, really. Nothing in private at all. It's been." And here, and now, and with her mother in a room that's as safe as she'll get outside of Spence, she admits. "It's been hard, finding each other again. We're managing, but it's … work, y'know?" 

Her mother takes a long time to think about that. "Your father and I…" she says finally. "We don't know what it's like. No one ever tried to keep us apart. No one ever tried to keep Diane and Chiron apart. You are in deep waters, love, and places we have no experience with, as a family. I don't even mean the whole thing with the Council, though that too. But just - loving someone about whom so many others have an opinion and want to influence. Expect things from." 

That is less helpful than it might be, and she sits, and waits, until her mother tries again. "You're right, we've been…" She stops, then says. "We need to remember, your dad and I, and Diane and Chiron, and maybe even Storm, that what you're doing, it's not a thing we know. It looks like the things we think we know, like a courtship and a wedding and a love match. And it is those things. But it's not only those things, and there are pieces we have to remember we're not seeing, not aware of."

And here, Rory nods. "And - some of it I can't tell you." she says. "And some of it I could, but not if you're going to take it wrong, or use it wrong, or use it to make things worse, even unmeaning."

"Which is why you are having troubles with your sister." her mother says. "She's always been one for clear-cut and plain and simple. The Ministry applauds children, she has children. Not that she doesn't love them, but … she'd have done any number of other things, if that were the way for a witch like her to get that kind of praise. She is not clever like you, Auri, or like Orion. She is not good with her hands, like Storm and Tempest. She's not even careful and diligent, like Sage. I don't know. She and Theo are more of a pair than I'd like, doing what they think other people will praise them for."

Rory nods. "And she doesn't see - I don't know how to explain - how many layers on layers these people, these circles, work at. How you lay one thing aside, because this other thing is more important, but this other thing ties into four or five separate considerations. How it's an interplay of favours and compliments, veiled expectations and threats." 

In short, what it means that their world is run mostly by Slytherins. 

She and her mother go back and forth, and at the end they have a plan, that her mother will work on Diane, that they'll keep writing, through her mother's journal (safer, that). And they'll see. It makes her feel better, and at the end she says. "Mum. Tell Dad what you think he can hold without shaking the tree?" And her mother just nods, and says "Not the first time, love." 

She sits there, for a while, working her way through a book, until she hears Tamsin's brisk knock on the door. She calls out "Come in." and Tamsin opens the door, ushering in Sally-Anne and Pansy, who are looking around, a little uncertainly. She nods. "You two trust my ordering?" she asks, and they nod. "What I suggested, then." she says. 

They make pleasant small talk for a few minutes. She explains how the place works, and that she's bought into a share, and that she trusts them for privacy and competence. She is not at all surprised that it becomes clear, a few sentences in, that they have some specific things in mind. She likes them, a great deal, but they are Slytherins, and she knows they have more of a goal here than a pleasant chat. But they dance around a little. 

Comiserations at the delay in the wedding, though that is blessedly brief and gentle. She mentions she'll make what study materials she has available handy. That she believes Umbridge has searched staff rooms, and they should expect student trunks to be searched as well, certainly when they come back. 

And then, when Tamsin brings their meals - soup and pasties and cheese and bread, and a tray of pastries for later - she waits and gestures. "Those." The long ribbons and weights by the door. "Those are built in privacy charms. But they don't mind if we do our own." And she lets her wand flick out, quick and sure. The one that will keep people away from their actual door, and then the one that Tosha taught her so carefully. 

It's at that point that she sees where they're going. They come out and ask her, what's keeping the Council from acting. Since Umbridge is clearly getting worse and worse, not just for some students, but for all of them. 

She knew this was coming, and yet she's not sure how to answer. She talks about Umbridge's threats to her. To her mother. That she's not sure how much she can risk someone else. It sound weak to her, even as she's saying it, but she's not sure how else to put it, how to find the words for what's been clashing around inside her head for months. 

She knows, in that moment, that she's disappointed them. Been less than she could be in their eyes. 

They point out - and it's very gentle, for all the sharp light it throws on her own failings - that their hands aren't tied like hers are. That they can do things she - they say "can't", and they all know it's "won't". That they're willing to break rules. They watch her face, and they point out they're working with Harry and Cedric. That the Governors aren't doing anything. That Umbridge is putting the students at risk. 

And then Sally-Anne says, "Professor Siz, is it Cassie who accused him? Cassie Calderwood?"

In that moment, she's lost. She knows it. She draws from some pool of self-control she didn't know she had, not to lose herself entirely in the surge of fear and shaking and sheer terror. She excuses herself, with a "Minute." and she makes her way, stumbling over her own feet as she turns the corner, into the room meant for breastfeeding women who want a little privacy. She locks the door, falling into the easy chair and shivering. 

It's minutes before she can breathe, before she can uncurl her fingers from where the nails press into her palm, before she can think about anything at all. She had not expected it to hit her this hard, this fast, this sudden. Last week had been bad, the rising expectation, but this hit her like an ocean wave, knocking her off her feet.

She runs her wrists under the cold water from the tap and breathes deeply, the meditation exercises Tosha's taught her. And then she takes herself to the cafe's counter, and asks Tamsin for a bottle of her favourite ale. Tamsin hands it over, puts it on her tab, but raises an eyebrow. "All right? Nothing I can help with?" and she just shakes her head. "Mind's own inferi." she says, and it's true enough. 

When she opens the door to Helga again, the two of them look up, cautious and careful, but before they can say anything, she slides into the chair and redoes the warding, her wand shaking only slightly. She holds up a hand, drinks a fair bit of the ale, and then says, "Yes." 

Just that one word. At first. And the world does not pitch beneath her feet again, and she feels the ale settle into her blood, just enough to buffer the terror and the irrational depths and the visions of Cassie (in Minerva's office, in the memory among fabric and pillows, in the moments walking through the hallways that she can't avoid.) 

She takes a deep breath, and says, word spun out after word, careful and delicate. "It is hard for me to talk about." Short words. Concrete words. There's a cautious breath, then she says. "The evidence is … inconsistent." And she knows she's going to have to explain,

They give her space in a way so many adults haven't. (She's seen Septima's eyes - and Horace's - when she excused herself a few days ago, the assumption of weakness and brokenness, and it's not like they were wrong, if she's reacting like this.) And she breathes into that, and takes her time, and knows they'll wait for her. She takes another long drink from the bottle, and then sets it on the end table, and curls her feet up under her. 

She can't quite look at them and talk at the same time. But she begins to find words. "Madam Pinkness" And she lets the name slip. "She showed me a small piece of a memory. A longer memory. Of Cassie and Raz … together. Intimately." She presses her lips together. "I am sure it's not him. Once I could think about it…" her voice trails off, in explanation that the thinking was not easy for a while. As she's just demonstrated.  
"It's not him. We're both sure. But we don't know - we don't know how the memory got like that." 

They talk more, then, around it, both of them careful and cautious, clearly trying to avoid triggering the terror for her again while also wanting whatever she will tell them. In the end, there's not much more. Just that the memory seems wrong, that they can't get independent access, that Umbridge has threatened more accusations if he tries to interfere. They make all the right noises, and say they'll see what they can do to talk to Cassie. 

After that, it's practical. She talks about the meeting at Horace's. Without naming names. They wish her and Raz well. And in the end, she's left alone, in the room, and she sits and shakes for a long time. When she's done, when she can manage to smile and face people, she makes her way out, dodging Tamsin (thankfully in a conversation with a very talkative older witch), and apparates to the Guild country house. 

There, she loses herself in the planetary moon telescopes. It is the new moon, and a good night for many of the ones she still needs. She works alone into the wee hours, having told Raz she'd be very late back, and she doesn't crawl into bed with him until nearly dawn. She's cold, and she's still shaky, now she doesn't have anything to focus on. But he is his usual radiant heat, and he doesn't pull away when her cold feet slide against his warm skin. His arm goes around her, and she burrows against him. He is stable and warm and reliable. And there.

She barely feels him get up the next morning, just rolls to bury herself in piles of covers, doesn't feel his kiss on the exposed crown of her head at all. She just sleeps and sleeps well into afternoon. When she does finally get up, everything is tender. Not from drink, not from stars and moons, but from that harsh light of needing to do better and not knowing how. She is gentle with herself, and when Raz comes back, in the late afternoon, they talk carefully, and she tells him what she told them. He is not happy, but he admits they may get somewhere that the adults have not. 

**April 12th, 1996**  
On Friday, Raz is doing last bits of review and duelling with Harry, and she takes herself off to Storm's for the afternoon. She spends several hours curled up on the couch in his office in the late morning and early afternoon, watching him smooth rough wood into beautiful shapes. (At the moment, he is doing a bunch of small pieces, and she gets, while he does them, how the fact that he has things that sell for a galleon or two up to hundreds, helps bring people into the shop and eventually work their way up.) 

When he pauses to stretch his hands, he shows her the beds he's finishing for her, her wedding present to Raz. One for Spence, one for Hogwarts. They are mostly done, but with the delay, he's built new and more extensive additions onto them. Layered charms, more subtle decorations in the posts, little touches. She admires the desk he's working on for Tosha, and the way he's built elements from Cottesmore into each part of the decoration, as well as a few amusing notes. (A sliding serpent, here, hints of Egyptian iconography there, Russian over here, all worked into a seamless design unless you look closely.) 

In the late afternoon, they join Dittany and Hyssop - the latter a bubbling toddler just finding more words for things - for a ramble, and he and his daughter go ahead while Dittany talks to her. 

Not at her, like Diane does, or most of her aunts, but with a sense that she knows Rory is a sensible and intelligent woman who just doesn't have experience of this specific thing. She talks, in her slow and careful way, about engagement being a preparation for marriage, for shifting from the family you grew up with to the one you're going to build. And how that was hard for her. Is hard for many of the Hufflepuffs she knows, that change in loyalty. And that it must be so very hard for her, to be stuck waiting.

Rory's quiet after that, but it's the thoughtful quiet, not the fretting quiet, and when she comes back to Raz in the twilight, he notices the change. She just leans and kisses his cheek, and says "Thinking. More usefully." 

**April 13th, 1996**   
Truly, she is glad to go to Karo and Ptolemy's wedding. She likes them, has liked them both for years. Karo can be dramatic, but she is good-hearted, and quick, and diligent enough in pursuit of her goals to satisfy the most hard-working Hufflepuff. And Ptolemy was one of her newts, and interested and intrigued and enjoyable to talk to. And she really does wish them both very well.

She just wishes their wedding weren't this fortnight. 

But she and Raz go, and they smile, and he is scrupulously chivalrous and attentive to her, the show of "we are, indeed, still madly in love." They talk to a wide variety of people, and stand where they know the gossip rags can get a good shot, and he leans over and murmurs in her ear a lot, the way people with intimate conversations do. 

It is not all show: she does love him, and he loves her, and letting that be visible is not that hard. But they are doing it deliberately, in a way they would not if they were not on display. Left to their own, they'd be curled up, in conversation, wandering from topic to topic, relaxed and easy and gentle. 

That is not the world they have. The world they have is imperfect, and it is up to them to find what perfection they can. 

Tonight, that is dancing, and being together, and going home to the same bed for the last time for who knows how long. 

It is not enough, it is never enough. 

It is what they have.


	7. Placetne, Magistra?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is finally a wedding. With some unexpected events before, during, and after.

“For God's sake, let's take the word 'possess' and put a brick round its neck and drown it ... We can't possess one another. We can only give and hazard all we have.”   
_Busman’s Honeymoon_ , Dorothy L. Sayers

**May 28th, 1996**  
Just when she thinks it will all go well, for long enough, the world shifts beneath her feet again. 

Tallie comes Tuesday afternoon, so they can go through the final details in her rooms. They've arranged the last robe fitting Friday morning, the appointments with Madame Ardenia's staff, the room at the Archetype for Friday evening. But there's any number of tiny details: rearranging the seating plans one more time, special meal quibbles, and two or three dozen choices people could find offense in and that they're trying to mitigate. But at the end of it, they've got lists for her family (who to talk to and distract) and ideas for the rest, and they're both satisfied. 

She walks Tallie down to the apparition point, and then comes back to Raz's rooms, curling up on his couch to wait and ask him the last few things. 

But when he comes in, not long after four, he's rubbing his arm, where the Mark is, absently, and there's some new edge there. She holds out a hand, and makes space for him on the couch, and they kiss. She is just about to talk him into accepting a shoulder rub, when there's a rapid knock at the door. 

Tosha’s on the other side, tight-lipped and honed and sharp-edged in a way she’s never seen him. He says something low and fast to Raz, and she sees Raz take a step back, sees the lack of expression on his face, before he turns and wheels into his bedroom. Tosha looks at her, then, “Spend as much time as you may in your tower.” It is the knife edge between order and plea, but she just nods, mouthing “I will”. 

Raz comes back, bag over his arm, and bends to kiss her, a shadow of moments ago, with a “Don’t know how long we’ll be. Tell Septima. Keep an eye on Harry.” 

She lets him - them - go with a simple. “Love you. Take care, both, please.” Something in their eyes, in the way Tosha rubs his arm, in the sharp movements. This is something beyond Ireland, beyond the hushed and unsteady conversations over Christmas, beyond Dolores. 

What she does not know is precisely how much she should be worrying. Whether she should be warning Tallie, or holding off (and how, in this moment, she desperately wants Minerva back, for all the usual reasons and a dozen more.) What risk there might be to any number of other people she cares about. 

She can’t answer any of it, so she plays out the time until supper, catching Septima as they’re sitting down, telling her what little she knows. (Which is about two sentences: "Something's up: Raz and Tosha are gone, they're not sure how long.") Then she retreats to her tower, but her satchel full of notes just sits there, and she instead curls up on the couch with a book that does not require any attention, and two very determined and supervising kittens. (The kittens help. The book, not so much.)

After class, late that night, Raz is waiting in her office. He's silent, and there's that layer of fierceness and complicated bitterness and the deep well of history she's not a part of and can never touch, just simmering. He holds out a hand to her, and she comes up to him, but he pulls back almost immediately, not allowing himself to linger. She knows that expression, like last June, though this is different. "Can't talk about it." is all he says, and she can't figure out if it's 'not allowed' or 'not able' or 'won't' or something else. "We had a worry about Harry, so I'm back."

"Want me to come down, or rather not?" 

He looks torn, for a moment, then says. "Better you stay here."

"Whatever you want." Whatever he wants, whatever eases that emptiness in his eyes, whatever makes the lines of worry fade even a little. Whatever she can do. 

He bends to kiss her once, briefly, and then he disappears down the stairs, and she's left with her office, and her kittens, and the silence. And her wards. Against whatever is out there, strong and terrifying enough to make both Tosha and Raz want to keep her in the safest place they can.

* * *

They move through the next two days as if it's practiced. And in its way, it is. Ireland hardened something in her, and the endless willpower required to live through the rule of Umbridge. She smiles, and goes through the usual rounds in classes, and she assumes that any oddities will be passed off as being about the wedding, not about whatever is happening

He tells her, finally, on Thursday night. That the Lord Protector is dead. That there's all sorts of power struggles and factions and complications. He lays them out for her, and she just listens, curled into the couch in the office.

And then he says, before she has to figure out how to ask (because of all the things in his world, the wedding is nowhere near the top in importance, it can't be) that he's talked to people, and they're going ahead with it. At least for the moment. It may change. But they - the ones he's allied with - need to act as if everything will be all right, that the country will hold, that those in power will not be wands drawn, and this is a way to do that. 

She shivers, once, and he takes her hands, but she just says. "What do I need to know to make it work?"

He leads her, then, through the security and the implications, and the bits and pieces they've put together so far, and what it means, and she scribbles notes for Tallie in the morning. A few minutes later, they're deep in what he tells Harry and how, which is his other big worry. (And rightfully so.) 

At the very end, he says "Sorry. Not the way you wanted it, I know." 

"I should have taken you up on eloping last fall." she says, too harsh and too fast, and regrets it immediately, so she tries again. "I want you, love. To be married to you. The formal part, the party - I never cared much about that, except that other people do, and I will not be used against you if I can help it. And …" She stops. "Assuming we can, the ceremony's the easy part. The controllable part." Because it's Spence and their close friends and families and - allies, yes, because she now thinks that way too. Has to. 

He nods, and he stands, and he makes his way back down to his own office, because he has classes tomorrow, and last minute exam review, and all the dozen other things that are a part of their usual days. And she has two hours of second years to get ready for.

* * *

There's a note, the next day, asking her to stop by his classroom before she leaves Hogwarts. She packs the few last things, checks her list, and then slips into his classroom at 9:55, just as the Ravenclaw 5ths are leaving. He pulls her up the stairs into his office, closes the door, and says "There's more than I knew."

And she can see in him, churning, the desire to tell her, to help her understand, working against his inability to explain and the time they don't have. 

She just shakes her head. "Raz, love. I will be as safe as I can be. Tell me what you can when you can. And in the meantime…" She shakes her head. "I'll do everything I can to be ready to .." She searches for words. "To be ready." 

They kiss (because she will leave in love, no matter what else) and then he goes back down to his classroom and she hears, after a moment, him going into his false-cheer mode, the one she's finally learned to pick out from his usual good nature. And she slips out the other door, and walks as briskly as she can to the apparition point.

* * *

The rest of the day consists of her saving her arguments for the places they matter. A way to carry her wand and have it accessible. (Taking off the holster, even in the safety of Spence, sets her entirely on edge, but there is no help for that and she will not allow herself to panic. Panic will not help.) That her hair will stay put. (The wreath is stunning and far better than any veil.) That she can kick the shoes off if she needs. (She is deeply regretting agreeing to the heels, but there is no help for it.) 

She and Tallie give up any pretense of a plan lasting for more than half an hour at this point, and settle on "We feed people, we give them some slight distraction, and we see what else we can manage". Which is not much of a plan at all, but it's what they've got, and at least the caterers are excellent. And then she submits herself to Madame Ardenia's staff scolding her over the trivialities (her hands are rough, her hair is wind-damaged, her feet need copious attention. Her hair's colour passes muster, but that's about it.) 

But she can't pace, and she can't go for a long ramble, and she can't go home to her parents to be somewhere predictable one last time. (Even if she could go back there, it would not help.) And she will be cursed up, down, and sideways if she gives the Society witches with nothing better to do more reasons to snipe than she has to. 

And so she is patient, and quiet, and still while she's primped and prodded and fussed at. And she waits. 

She had wanted the evening with her friends at the Archetype. But there's safety concerns, and Campanella's working full out, and Delilah's caught up in the politicking at St M's, and she won't expose Gilly and Sigrun to more risk because of her. So what she gets instead is supper with her mother and father and Diane - at Spence, because the elves have already prepared the dining room and a hundred other things for tomorrow - and then they go away too. 

(Things with Diane are better, but she can't talk about how everything might fall to pieces in the next twenty four hours, or all the worries she's got boiling inside her, or … anything of meaning, actually. So better is that they're talking at all, and letting their parents guide the conversation. What they get is stories of their wedding, and Diane's, and Storm's, and she can listen with half an ear that does not fool her mother, but keeps the peace.) 

Before they leave, she and her mother walk up to the bedroom they'll be using to change in, to lay out things for the next day (while her father keeps Diane occupied.) There, her mother says "Traditionally, this would be the time when I told you about the realities of the marital bed, but I know you don't need that the way it was meant - and I couldn't begin to comment on the other realities you're facing, and we both know it."

She flinches. She can't help it. 

Her mother reaches out a hand, to touch her cheek, opens her mouth, then closes it after a "We love you, and we just want you to be happy." 

Siz nods, and turns away for a minute. When she turns back, she says. "Thanks, Mum. Just - I don't want to talk, right?" And her mother nods, and they go back, and she hugs her sister, and her father, and her mother, and they go away. 

After that, she curls up alone in the Painted Room, wishing for Raz (or, since she can't have him, a kitten). She can't settle to anything at all, even reading, the time punctuated only by twice-hourly visits from a house elf wishing to be useful. Finally, she takes herself down to bed (their current bed: Storm has not yet delivered the new one.) Alone.

* * *

**June 2nd, 1996 : a wedding day**  
In the morning, there are flowers from Tosha, a card wishing her a day full of joy. (And it's Tosha. They can both live in hope of a story that ends happily-ever-after even while they know the challenges of the narrative they're actually in.) 

She is in the Painted Room again, trying to read (and failing, and mostly looking out the window) when she hears footsteps, and sees Raz poke his head into the room. "Safe?" he asks. "No family lurking?" 

There's something in his tone - fortunately, she is only superstitious about him seeing the robes, not her - but she shakes her head. "They're not due for an hour." (There are many things they could do in an hour, and most of them they probably shouldn't, but how she wants to lose herself in something she knows and trusts and has patterns for.) 

He sits beside her on the couch. "I don't have long." He's rubbing his eyes, and looks very tired, but he says. "Our Lord is not dead. Not anymore. Changed. But not dead. And we are all - you included - summoned to Court on Sunday morning. I needed to tell you."

She goes still for a long moment, and he cups her hand, and opens his mouth, and that's enough to make her close her fingers against his and say "I still want, love." He breathes out, and he leans to kiss her, and then he pulls back. "Soon." is all he says, and she nods, and then he's away and out the door again, and she looks after him and all the fragments of what other people have - hen nights and bachelor parties and unadulterated pleasure. The thing they can't ever have. 

There is an early lunch with her mother and sisters and then she is taken in hand by another of Madam Ardenia's staff, who fusses over final cosmetic charms and her hair. She's quiet, through it, and when they take a break for the witch to prepare the next set and for Siz to stretch, her mother pulls her aside. 

"Anything I can do?"

She shakes her head. Because there isn't, besides get to the other side of the ceremony. It's a good thing she's never thought of this as the peak day of her life, because it's not going to be. She does not feel like a princess or like everything was building to this and only this. Not except in the one way that really does matter: that she will stand beside Raz, and not leave him alone, and that this endless waiting to fully shift her loyalties will finally be over. 

Then there's a knock on the door, and Sage and Temp and Diane and their grandmother pile in, and Siz gets quieter and quieter while they fuss and comment. All the things that seem to matter so very much to them barely even register to her, and after a while, it's the buzzing of bees and the rattling of branches, and all too loud and too much to follow. They slide the dress on, and it is perfect, and smooth, and she can move in it, and - all right, she does feel gorgeous. For a few minutes. 

A bit before three, her mother takes a look at her, and bustles everyone out, except for Sage in case she needs an errand run, with a whispered "Take a little time." Sage puts music on the player, and she just sits cautiously (to avoid mussing the dress or the charms) and breathes. She imagines the stars in their places, and thinks about being on the tower looking up at them, leaning against Raz. It steadies her, and when her mother pokes her head in twenty minutes later, she is composed enough, and calm enough, and if not ready for all that might come, at least ready to choose to walk forward, one more time.

**2pm, at Spencer House**  
The ceremony itself is sharp and bright and it's only because she knows exactly what's going to happen and when that she manages it. 

There's the pause, outside the door of the dining room, her father looking at her and bending to kiss her forehead, silently. They don't need words. And then taking her arm. She walks in, suddenly aware of all the people watching her, and catching faces in the crowd. Smiles and patience and a glimpse of Poppy and Pomona. Of Campanella and Gilly and Sigrun and Delilah. (No Dai. Never Dai, not with Rod in the room.)

And then they get far enough up the aisle that she can see Raz, and he can see her properly, and there's an expression on his face that's beyond words. Wanting and control and a dozen things mingled in his face, most of which she can read, but some of which she can't. But then she's there beside him, and he's taking her hand, and she wants this moment to last forever. 

They move forward: brief words, brief vows, the binding of their wand hands and the charm to draw blood and mingle it. She feels the charms launch, and hears the faint gasp of breath from the observers, but all that's solid for her is Raz and the look in his eyes and the strength of his hand in hers. Then, the witch, the celebrant, is holding up a cup for them to drink from. Storm carved it, she knows, as the first of the ritual cups for her new family and whatever magics they'll hold, but she hasn't seen it yet, and she gets only glimpses of the carvings. They drink, and they eat a tiny bit - the three traditional things - and then they turn to each other and kiss. 

She tastes the honey and salt on his lips, and then feels all the magic contract back into them, feels him grip at her for a moment, as she does at him, feels it settle into her skin, into her heart and her lungs and her womb and murmur in her blood. There's a long pause, a universe of the two of them, stretched out in an endless time, and then they have to pull back and breathe, and the rest of the world comes rushing in again. She almost wobbles, and then finds her balance, and they turn back, to have the witch pronounce them bound and married, and he's slipping the ring on her hand, and she is on his. 

After that, there's fussing with the tapestries - her family's is cleaned and proper and tended - and she watches as her own image appears on the Lestrange one. She feels Raz's hand at her back, and leans into it for a moment, and then they're walking down the aisle again and standing through round after round of congratulations. (A kiss from Tosha, on her cheek, glee and delight from her family, more muted but glad responses from many other people.) They slip off with various family for photographs, and then finally they get a few moments for just the two of them. 

"You all right?"

She nods, then says "Got you. Properly." And she has to force herself not to cry out of sheer relief, and she squeezes his hand and leans into his shoulder for a minute. And then she does what she's learned from him, setting aside all that emotion to do what needs doing. 

When they come back into the dining room, people have peeled off into the predictable groupings, but her mother is taking good care of Pomona and Poppy, and everyone seems willing enough to be pleasant and sociable. (Except her new sister-in-law, but they all expected that.) And they're married and that's the thing she hangs on to with all the teeth and claws and willful stubbornness she has. 

**Later that afternoon, at the London Guildhall**  
They migrate, eventually, to the Guildhall, and they stick their heads into the supper room, the Old Print Library, to see that everything is laid out, table after table, and the wheat yellow and the deep green and the white are strong and clear and soothing in their patterns. The flowers are beautiful, but she has to stop, take in a breath, when she sees the head table. The arrangement by her seat includes a single burst of apple blossoms. She's trying to figure out what to say when her mother puts a hand on her shoulder and says. "I kept one in stasis for you." 

And she nods, and turns away for a moment, and then Tallie is refreshing the charms on her hair and adjusting the wreath and the fall of her skirts and they're sorting out the receiving line, and there's a swarm of students and then dozens of other people, and it's more than half an hour before she can think again, between the smiling and the nodding and the congratulations. They move from standing around to supper, and she settles in to the buzz of other conversations around her. There are gaps, here and there, and she tries not to think about the politicking going wrong. People seem pleased by the food, at least. (And in her heart, feeding people and encouraging congenial conversation soothes many scars.)

They are about half way through supper when the doors at the end of the room are opened, and the Lord Protector comes striding in. Raz had warned her, just enough, that he was changed, but she goes stock-still for a moment, then Raz is reaching to help her to stand as their Lord comes to the head table, then around. 

He holds out his arms, reaches to kiss her cheek - and his skin is something she can't describe, power and coolness and foreignness - and then he's pulling away from her to shake Raz's hand. And it's all the outward appearances of courtesy, but everything inside her is screaming how wrong it is. 

Their Lord lingers, this massive gravitational force in the room, and all else quiets around him, and everyone tries not to become the centre of his gaze. Except. He talks to Bella, who glows and glows with praise and pleasure and moves her hands so you can see the missing ring finger. To Barty, who gleams like a knife edge at some comment. 

But he moves then to Claudius Yaxley, who turns away, shaken and white, after. Parnassus Glendower (the younger one), who looks uncertain and pale. And then Jason Montague, who puffs up and looks proud. And their Lord is sweeping out again, and she can breathe, and she can sit, and she can try to remember what she's doing here. She feels Raz's hand slip into hers, and then Tosha's touch on her shoulder as he comes to murmur something to Lucius, and she keeps herself calm by force of will.

She breathes in, and the scent of the apple blossoms and the roses and the smells of the gardens at home settle her and smooth things, and after a moment, she picks up her fork, and eats a little more, and answers some question from a wellwisher, and the world spins on. 

**Later that evening**  
The reception is a blur. So many people, and all of them wanting to talk to Raz or to her (mostly to Raz), and there are all the details. She sees, out of the corner of her eye, students moving around, and people enjoying themselves, and slowly relaxing, settling into little clumps of conversation and pockets of friendship, and she is glad that there's space for that here. 

She and Raz open the dancing, formal and careful, and she trusts his hand on her waist and the press of skin against her hand, warm and human and hers. She blesses Tosha for practicing with her, that she can dance in the shoes with some confidence, some hope of grace, and she hears scattered comments, about her robes, her poise, her joy. 

(She is joyful. Her internal sky holds many stars, and some of the thousands hold joy, and some hold pleasure, and many hold love. Even if others in the sky hold worry and fear, and even if the blackness between them is the vast unknown.) 

She loses herself in the pattern of the dance, the shift of the music, and their musicians. (Quadrivium were the perfect choice. It was a risk, trying to bridge the gap between the formal dancing they needed to have, and Raz's actual tastes in music, but this is modern, new, changed enough to be different and exciting, while still being a dance for formal robes and long hems and flowing fabric.) The dress swirls around her, and shifts against her skin, and when they're done, Raz bends to kiss her, and they linger in the moment as long as they can before they must pull apart and return to saying all the right things to all the many right people. 

There is a little time with those she actually likes. She gets a few minutes with Cedric, and she sees in him all the signs of someone covering exhaustion and injury and slow recovery (for she has learned those marks so well from Raz and from Tosha). But he is here, and he is alive, and on his own feet, and he is so very delighted to be with them tonight. Georg comes and finds her, and she points out Linus, but cannot manage to introduce them before someone else pulls her away. 

And there are all the many members of her family, who wish to talk to her on end about all sorts of things. At least they all seem to agree that her wedding, if not the way they would have done it, is acceptable. Which is good, because it reduces the number of times she will be hearing about its flaws for the next forty years.

Some part of her notices, later in the evening, that she has not seen several people around recently - not Pansy or Sally-Anne or Harry or Draco or Hydra. But she assumes that they are fine, and she does not wish to worry Raz over something likely foolish (for surely, they have simply found some corner away from the adults and the expectations and the boring conversations.) And then she hears Linus, behind her, mention fetching punch for Pansy, and she does relax. 

They circulate, and she is glad to see that the seating has worked, and the model Quidditch stadium is a success (and it has quite usefully contained the Quidditch stories in one place, so that people who like that sort of thing can find them, and people who don't can do something else. Which was the point, actually.) And she sees the staff gracefully deal with more than one person who's had a little too much, despite the precautions, but it doesn't come to difficulties, just a quiet arm away from the party. 

Around one in the morning, she works on extracting Raz, and waits for him to make a few last comments. She finally snags her journal, replies to Poppy (and wonders if Poppy will read the hint there, that she is terrified about Court, now that it's rapidly approaching, that all she hangs onto is that probably, whatever happens that there is to fear will not happen to Raz. Or to her.)

And then Raz is done, and they're slipping out of the back entrance, Tallie handing her a cloak, and he pulls his arms around her as soon as they're outside the anti-apparition wards, and then they're in the foyer at Spence. There's the house elves, bustling up. "Master" and then, for the first time, "Mistress." and the whole rush of realising that she is mistress here now, washes over her and threatens to pull her under entirely. 

She stops, again, trying to find her balance against it, and Raz is turning back after handing them her cloak, but she manages a smile, a few small requests, thanks for their attention to every detail through the past few days. They walk back to their bedroom, and there is a basket, waiting by the bed, and she smiles. "Last family tradition." she says. "Sustenance for the newlyweds." She turns, and there's a look on Raz's face.

He holds out his hands to her and then shifts to find the fastenings for her dress, and undo the charms, and he's kissing at her neck. "Shone like a star" before he pulls back. "Court's early…" he says, uncertain for a moment. 

"Rather less sleep, more you." she says, and he looks down at her, and there's a light in his eyes that will hold her through a great many cloudy nights. She feels the silk slip from her body, and then looks down, to finally kick off the heels and end up noticeably shorter again. And he pulls her to the bed, and things spin out in gentleness and love and desire, and all the things she wants to have forever with him. 

There is almost no talking: they neither need it nor want it. 

She is so glad this is not, in fact, their first time. She cannot imagine how people do that, all the complexity of the wedding and then all the weight of exploring each other, and all the places things can go wrong. How it would feel if she had all those new and uncertain things, and felt as she does, with her hips and back aching from the shoes, and her nerves raw from too many people and too many patterns to follow and too many things changing too fast.

Instead, what they have is slipping into comfort, into reassuring knowledge, all the things that are about them and not about the world outside their door. The brush of his touch on her skin, and her hand in his hair, and her fingers on his broad shoulders. When they're done, and she's curled in his arms, her head on his shoulder, she finally comes to rest, and her eyes close, and she is asleep.

**June 2nd, 1996, entirely too early in the morning**  
There is too much sun the next morning. 

They are up before eight, to bathe quickly and dress (she blesses the foresight that means she has robes here that will suit). He pauses, as they're changing, and says. "Love?" a bit uncertainly, and she comes to him, where he's standing by a door that she thought went to a closet. Instead, he opens it, and there is a room there, and she blinks. 

"Your dressing room, love, when we get it done up. Wedding present." And he gets that look on his face like he's not sure it's the right thing, and he wants it to be, and that he feels he is very bad at presents most of the time, and she turns and stands on tiptoe to kiss him and soothe him about this much, at least. And then to take a few steps in, and see a room that is large enough for a chaise and a desk and shelves and has windows that look out on the garden, and plenty of storage, and she is delighted. 

She turns back to him and says "Mine to you, love, is a new bed. Two. Storm made them, one for here and one for Hogwarts, with all sorts of useful charms and things we'd like. He - we'll need to sort out getting them set up, but this past week was not the time." And he mmms, and purrs in her ear something about looking forward to trying out all the charms, and then she has to pull back and say "Let me finish getting ready, love." 

She sorts her hair, and comfortable shoes, and they walk the too short distance to Buckingham. They wait, with so many others (and everyone uncertain, with the changes and the additions and their Lord's variable mood), in the antechamber, no one really talking. Tosha comes out, briefly, to murmur in her ear. "Dear heart, don't say anything, don't look anyone in the eye, and don't make a sound. If He speaks to you, grovel."

And she is sure then that it may be very bad indeed, but then Raz is at her side, and they're called in, and she takes a deep breath, and just hopes. 

She does as Tosha says, and keeps her eyes down, and her hands quiet, and just listens, as hard as she can, for anything that may give her some hint of the patterns she needs and the connections and the dangers. When she hears Tosha called forward, she tenses, and then relaxes when it is to explain, not defend himself. Until. 

Chloe. Dead. 

She loses the next part entirely, bracing her knees so she won't fall out of sheer reflex, drilled into her by Raz over and over when taking an unfamiliar hex, and her hand is tighter in his, and she can't gasp, can't speak, can't do anything. She claws her way back to taking a careful small breath, to trying to listen again, and what she gets is Marston Strangeweale being brought forward, for his part in it. (She does not understand, but she may ask Tosha later, when she dares, when she can stand it.)

It is not that she likes Marston Strangeweale: she remembers his face, when they sacked her from the YPL, all the pointed little comments and snipes and nastiness she put up with from him. (Not like Stint, but nearly as unpleasant, in a different way.) But their Lord takes out his wand, and commands them watch. 

Something in how their Lord does it makes the entire room pulse. With pain, with pleasure in pain, with control, with power, with a whole hearted glee that makes her blood shudder in her ears. She feels her fingernails dig into her palm, and she works on doing nothing but breathing, nothing but absorbing the lessons before her. 

When it is done, and Marston is a wreck on the floor, at least a dozen of those there are shaken, the same memory that has caught and held Raz (his hand tight on her back, and she can't turn to him or reach for him, or do anything except brace and not make things worse. Of being at that end of the wand, and the screaming and the thrashing and the vomiting and the agony. Raz she knew, but seeing that same expression on Lucius, the same fear on Narcissa, confirms what she'd guessed about last June. Minerva, too, at some other painful time, she thinks. And then the lot of them shake and hide their wounds away and pretend that this is how things always are, in all the places of power in the world. 

There is more, but she can lower her eyes again, and look at the floor, and wait for it to be over. To be glad it is not Raz, this time. Not her. And then to hate herself for her gladness. 

Court finally ends, and they do go back to Cottesmore with Tosha and Barty, but the Malfoys do not appear, and things are very quiet. And after an hour (and reassuring Berry that it's not her fault, the food's fault, that none of them have any appetite at all), she and Raz excuse themselves. They return to Spence, and spend the afternoon stretched out in bed, still not talking. There is touching, and reassuring, and one brief "I chose, love. Still choose." when the look in his eyes, of what he brought her into, gets wild enough to worry her more than speaking does. 

She falls asleep again, and so does he, and they wake around five, in time for a very simple supper. She has a few words with the house elves, promising them that yes, they will be back for the summer, that she wants to learn about this house, and what is needed to make it shine, and that she hopes to have more duties for them, as they sort that out.

Because the patterns of a home, even one as large and strange as this one is to her, are things she knows. She is not quite sure how to dance the line from his to theirs, but she is far more certain of the one from house to home, from roof to place of peace. 

At seven, they are walking back from the Hogwarts apparition point, and she leaves him at his office to go to hers, with the promise she will be down later. No hiding, no sneaking, no separation. 

No being alone. Not any more.

It pleases her.


End file.
